Illegitimate
by Shiggity Shwa
Summary: An AU story stemming off of the episode 'Terror'. Deals with the consequences of what happened during the restaurant hot call and how they impact Sam and Jules' lives. Sam's POV.
1. Black Tie Affair

_A/N: I know what you're thinking. Another story, Shiggity you beast. Well this actually was just one I was screwing around with for fun and I gave a few snippets to SYuuri who emphatically insisted that if I didn't post it I at least email it to her. I thought I would post it despite having a bad track record of starting and stopping things (because why should she get all the fun?). I think it has a pretty unique plot and I don't think it's been done before (sorry if you did it before I honestly didn't know). So again, if you enjoy it, thank SYuuri who is responsible for like 90% of Shiggity fics.  
>Some few technicalities, this chapter is set directly after the episode Terror. But future chapters will have larger chronological jumps between them. I'll work this into the narrative to make it clear. Also I know in Terror it was summery weather, but for the sake of my creative genius let's all pretend it was March and Jules and Steve had coffees instead of ice cream and they were wearing coats. That's all I ask of you. Just do this one thing for me.<br>Oh and this story will hopefully just be 10 chapters long. Also two of the chapters will be borderline M. I'll post a special disclaimer at the beginning. And as always the whole story is rattled with swear words. So sorry. _

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. **

Illegitimate

Chapter 1

Black Tie Affair

He's late for work. Knew he would be late for work when he woke up almost an hour late this morning. Knew he would be late for work when he went out last night with the guys. Knew he would be late for work because he went out with them the night before. And the night before. And the night before. Knew he would be late for work almost a week ago when he was out with the guys and he got a call. A call from her.

First it was a note. A piece of paper, wiggled back and forth like a loose tooth and ripped on the crease. Chicken scrawled how they make a great team. Yeah, they work well together. Two cogs in the same machine. So well they're both on the top team. So when he saw her in the restaurant, maniac with proven mental issues waving a gun in her face, it was wrong of him to want to save her. Wrong because the feelings he swallowed weren't the type of feelings he's supposed to have. He's not supposed to know how her skin feels. How her lips taste. How she creates the sexiest sound when he sucks on her neck.

So he's three drinks into a well earned buzz, listening to Spike talk about his dad's horrible homemade wine, and his cell phone goes off in his pocket. He doesn't answer the first time. Doesn't think to answer. Is more focused on getting heavily shitfaced because all he thinks about is them together. How apparently everyone else thinks they're perfect for each other. How Sarge is basically ready to walk her down the aisle. He thinks she is perfect. Was perfect for him. No one else thought so. Including her. She thought the team was more important.

And he's left to watch her swoon over some old high school acquaintance who reveals too much about her to the team on the rare occasions when they intercept him. Causes her to hide her blush by ducking her head, almost in shame. He has to be okay with her spending her well earned day off with him. Watch her get excited to see him and pretend he isn't affected in the slightest. Watch her get sucked into an open hostage situation with him. Watch her over security cameras and unhitch his breath every time a gun is raised, because Jesus, she's already been shot once. Watch her kiss him and fret over him because he's hurt. Watch his world implode.

He sort of assumes they'll be closer now. They went to high school together, survived the nuclear wasteland of The Hat. Now they basically have matching couples tattoos surfacing in gunshot wounds. It's the perfectly laid out love story and if he wasn't so fucking bitter and so fucking terrified that he'd never get to hold her again, he'd be absolutely ecstatic for them. So he quietly chugs back a quarter of his beer and laughs along with the guys at something Spike said that he didn't hear.

Then his phone goes off again and the guys stare at him and his generic ringtone. They demand he answer it because the electronic jingle is interrupting their alcoholic sport. He presses his lips, fishes the phone from his back pocket and engages the call. His beer is still in his other hand. Has to have his priorities straight.

But her voice comes in. Shaky, stuttered, large gasps between the words and in his state of half inebriation he thinks the reception inside the bar is just shitty. So he tells her to hang on a second because he can't hear her that well. And really he can't. The TVs show a menagerie of hockey, golf and horse racing. Loud rock music plays. The lights are just too dim for him to concentrate. He just got the pattern of her language down.

Outside in the eerily warm March weather he tells her to continue. She inhales. A deep raspy, wobbly ordeal he images racks her whole body and only states two words.

"He's gone."

They hold a funeral two days later. She sits on the edge of a first row pew, pardoned and stripped. Her heel keeps popping out of the back of her slingback. Smooth, flawless shin muscle flinches every time the cold church air hits her bare sole. Her hair is wavy, falling over the reserved back of her black, long-sleeved dress. The hem billows with her timed fidget. Lace dragging through water.

He sits two pews behind her. A creaky convention made for lurching sinners. He tries not to move. Tries to pay attention to the sermon. Tries to honor Steve's life, which very well could have been sacrificed for Jules. He doesn't really believe this though, because she's too smart to do half the shit Steve the stupid paramedic did. Tries to bow his head and pray along with the congregation, but he just wants to watch her. Perched on the edge. Solitary. He's with the rest of the team. Five men in suits instead of bulletproof vests. This is what it takes. Has only ever happened once before.

Afterwards the guys semicircle surround her, try to talk to her. He imagines it's like a flashback to hanging out at lockers in a Hat high school. Except the intentions are only the best and the wheedling is concerning if she's eating, sleeping, how handling things. Funerals mute Jules. Don't just cause her to get reserved or quiet. Full out mute her. Knows it because he saw her at Lew's. Knows it because she had to go to her mom's at the age of seven and her father and brothers forgot her in the cemetery.

In sniper peripherals he keeps track of her until she finally disengages from the room. He sets his drink down on the table, excuses himself from whoever he is talking to, and follows her to the coat check. "Jules?"

She turns, hair bobs around her shoulders, waves and dips around her face. Irises dance, sway behind a veneer of unshed tears. Plump lips purse and release. Her arms cross one another, defensive. Protective.

"Where are you going?"

Eyes fall to the scuffed and frayed hardwood. Lower lip trembles. She receives her coat without acknowledging the clerk. In a small, fluctuating voice she answers. "I have to fly home. There's another funeral."

"Okay." His voice equally quiet, afraid to usurp hers because he's almost too indifferent to the situation. Emotionally he bleeds for her. Wants to hold her and comfort her, but they work too well together. Emotionally he feels guilty as fuck because he doesn't feel all that bad for Steve. But logically he didn't know him that well, he's sure he was a nice enough guy. But jumping in front of a firing gun is a gamble. Getting shot is a gamble. If surviving a gunshot wound is fifty-fifty thing and it's between Steve and Jules he'll always bet on the same number. Pray for the same outcome.

Slowly, he unhooks her coat from trembling hands, from around clenched fingers and holds it open for her to slip into. She's so close to him he can smell her shampoo, her perfume, all the fragrances knitting together on her skin thunder in his nostrils. He restrains his hands from rescuing her hair caught beneath the collar of her coat and instead concentrates on the way she casually flips it free.

"Thank you," she whispers into the crosshatched lapel fabric. Eyes observing him briefly from thick, tear clumped lashes before she walks to the door.

Four days ago now. He hasn't seen her since the bleak whiteness from the open door ensconced her frame, light bursting around her body. Hasn't seen her since she didn't give him a second glance. He tries to push her into the back of his mind, but she's in his every unconscious thought. His every moment. His every heartbeat.

Dodging and veering through the SRU, through the three different levels of stairs and semi-stairs diffusing out to only a few steps that in lesser states of perception have caused him to tumble, he RSVPs for the day shift. He's only ten minutes late. It's a pretty big red X on his record, but considering only half an hour ago he dragged his hungover ass out of bed, he considers it a victory.

"Braddock." Ed doesn't even glance up from the obvious report he's already filing. Other people don't consider it quite a victory. "You're late."

"I know. My alarm didn't go off." It's a bold faced lie. The kind his mother would grow glassy eyed at when she immediately saw through it. Wring her hands on her embroidered kitchen apron and turn away from him. The kind The General would plant a fist on his face for.

"Give him a break, Ed." Wordy nudges their Team Leader and give him a coy smile. "You know how it is sometimes."

"Yeah." Spike agrees from a few feet away, screwdriver awkwardly positioned against Babycake's treads. Apparently Team Two must've used her last night over shag again. "Samtastic hit the bottle so hard last night; I thought it said something nasty about his Mom."

Ed emits a very low, very brief chuckle. "All right Sam, just don't make a habit of this."

"No sir." He answers, still not able to shake the army leeching on to the back of his neck. It's a disease. It circulates with his platelets.

The locker room echoes with this every movement. Almost haunting in reverberations. Locker clanks, zipper hisses, clothes muffle and scuff. He gets changed in record time. He always does. Bleeding trait leftover from the army.

When he exits the locker room he can already feel the transformation. The air is different. Lighter, softer, charged. After four vacant days he began to notice the changes she brings to the SRU. He always knew them, they just became more pronounced.

She's stuck in the clear space between where Ed and Wordy stand at Winnie's vacant desk and where Spike kneels on the ground a few feet away. Triangulating. Her purse threatens to slide down her shoulder; coat sleeve bunched creating hills of wooly material. Boots leak a little bit of off brown water, the kind seen in puddles and clean rivers, from the melting snow.

Ed strides by her, by the others as they apparently catch up. The Team Leader gives him an expression. He's unsure how to interpret it, but sure Ed's base reaction is annoyance. Jules still has another four days off; she shouldn't be back to work yet so now preparations for her return to duty must be fast tracked. Or it could be because he's staring at her, and Ed knows it.

Eventually the solemn conversation between her and the others ends. Spike didn't manage to elicit a laugh, not even a grin, not even anything else than a blank mask response. She walks away, boots leading Dalmatian tracks across the floor and towards him.

The muscles in her throat and her collarbone are over pronounced by gray skin that usually accompanies illness. Her hair threads, dull in color and looks brittle in texture. Her eyes stand half open with threatening bags beneath them. It's the combination of losing someone and jetlag.

He pretends not to notice any of this. "Hey Jules."

"Hey. Do you know if Sarge is in?" Her head cranes to the side to sneak around him since he commands the hallway.

He didn't realize this and steps to the side. "I haven't seen him, but you might want to try the briefing room."

"Thanks." She swerves around. Purse yanking down her arm.

And then he waits again. Some mornings at the SRU are so disorganized. If there's not an immediate hot call or game plan, things go to shit quickly. Wordy went to restock, Spike continued with Babycakes, Ed went over drills for later once a team of five or six could be successfully confirmed, Jules and Sarge apparently talked. And he just did nothing. It's like being back in Kindergarten, there are too many things to focus on and he can't concentrate. Can't make a difference. He can hardly feel his headache anymore.

Finally she reappears as an apparition at the end of the hallway. She tries to walk right by him, but he gives her chase. A little offended, a little hurt she would just ignore him. Not even greet him after her brief sabbatical. Fingertips ghost over her swinging hand halting her immediately. "Jules."

Her hand is clammy. It flinches away like she's touching an oven element. "What?"

"Nothing." A little stunned by her reaction he takes a step back to compensate for his unwelcome disruption. Part of him wants to apologize for interrupting her march and leave it at that, but she's unbalanced. Her face is stern, but her eyebrows grow un-crooked and buoyant, denying her anger. Other emotions parading as anger. "I just wanted to see how you were doing."

"I'll tell you in an hour." She answers and flashes a half crumpled piece of paper. The corner of it being masticated by her hand. Fingernails tearing into it. "I have to go downstairs for a psych evaluation."

He groans. Feels her agony. Knows her hatred for psych evaluations courses deep. Is well earned. His nose twitches almost in disgust. "Really?"

"Yep. Sarge ordered." She shoves the paper into her purse. It's almost confetti. She sighs loudly and plows stringy bangs from her face.

"I'm sorry."

Her head shoots up. Eyes dart, and narrow. "I wish people would stop saying that."

He doesn't know how to reply because the fallback response is usually another apology.

"And asking me how Medicine Hat was. It was a funeral, how do you think it was? Or if I saw my dad? I did in a pharmacy but I didn't tell him I was going to be in town and he didn't want me there so you can imagine the extreme dislike on both our parts when we just happened to meet."

"Hey, hey." His hand touches her bicep. He means for the action to calm her, but underneath his fingertips her muscle tenses to rock. She's about three seconds from wrenching her arm away and continuing her march to an evaluation. He just wishes he could tell her that he's here for her. No matter what she needs, he's here for her. But he can't because they work too well together. "It's going to be okay."

"Yeah." Arm jerks free from his grasp and she shrugs him off. Her shoulder rotates so her purse rises higher on her arm. Fingers strum the worn and giving fabric. Boots clack down the echoing hallway. "Everyone keeps telling me that too."

* * *

><p><em>Next Chapter - Shit goes down. I'm not saying anymore than that because I don't want to ruin it. <em>

_A/N on other stories: Just-World Ch.6 is about half done. Sonant and Surd Ch. 2 I'm having writer's block on._


	2. A Stick in the Spokes

_AN:__ Alright so after Illegitimate was unrecognized by this site for two days (I laughed at the irony and then raged like a sea beast) I'm sure you've all come to terms with the first chapter. Now forget it. That was merely a decoy chapter to lull you into a sense of false comprehension and security. This chapter is where the the story takes a completely different/ slightly unpredictable turn. I say slightly unpredictable because if you understand the title mixed with Shiggity's writing history then it's pretty damn predictable, but still, I M. Night Shyamalan'd this mofo. I apologize if you were looking for something different in a story, but this was the intent since it's conception. Please by all means feel free to stop reading and take a complimentary grab bag on your way out.  
>Thanks to those of you who took the time to reviewfavorite/alert and of course read. I assume the site will not recognize the new chapter when it goes up because thus is life. So please be patient. One day technology will rule us and if we treat it well now it may store that data in it's motherboard.  
><em>

Illegitimate

Chapter 2

A Stick in the Spokes

It's ironic; he's lived in Toronto for a little over three years and the first time he sets a foot in the CN Tower is when they get a hot call there. It's kind of like the lifelong New Yorkers who never take the time to visit monuments people travel halfway around the world to see. Just for the memories, bragging rights and a shitty out of focus Polaroid.

They divide into three teams of two. Ed and Wordy are on the opposite side of the lobby while he and Spike clear the gift shop. It is his first visit to the Tower after all. Sarge is in the truck with Jules, who hasn't left the vehicle's double reinforced backdoors since she returned to work a little over a month ago. He thinks she's privately mourning Steve. That the back of the truck has become proxy for a chapel. Or she didn't pass her psych exam. Either way he doesn't want to talk to her about it.

He and Spike tiptoe around the gleaming tiled floors in the gift shop. The type of floor that just loves to echo footsteps and tell the type of crazed maniacs who holdup national landmarks their exact position. He rounds a rack full of Toronto themed t-shirts and remembers the hot call at the Eaton's Center with Jules. Watching her crawl through the vent. Not wanting to leave her, but having to. How the cord yanked her over the side. How he couldn't feel his body for four seconds.

From behind a row of coffee mugs and other ceramics, a guy charges at him. He's big. Bigger than the schizophrenics or manic depressives usually are. Usually they're little, scrawny guys who look like they haven't been fed a solid meal in months. This guy looks like he just broke out of prison. Because he did.

He lands hard on his back and wrestles with the guy, like the black faux marble tiles are those generic blue mats found in high schools across the country. Fist into face. Knee into gut. Extinguishes the air from the guy's lungs. He's just thankful he got this guy instead of Jules. Doesn't think she'd be able to talk her way calmly out of it. Wrangles him down with his arms behind his back. Digs a knee in just so he knows he's not going anywhere.

"Sam?" Spike yells from the stock room.

"Subject contained."

"Jeez, maybe leave some for the res—" Spike stops his banter on his approach. Stops fixing the comm. link in his ear. Stares for maybe a second while he cuffs the guy on the floor and then runs over. "Jesus, Sam."

"What?"

"Your face."

"Yeah, okay." Figures it's another of Spike's farfetched jokes that revolve around plots he doesn't always get.

"No, Buddy. Your face." His voice is a constant stream, hands shaky. "Jules we need EMS."

"What?" Her voice is panicked.

"Sam's face, it's cut deep." Spike runs to the rack of shirts and grabs one to apparently compress on a phantom wound.

He knocks his teammate's hand away. "My face is fine."

"Sam, look at the floor."

"This is SRU requesting EMS—"

Knee still in a squirming backbone he finally notices the raindrops of blood. He thought at first they were from the subject's nose, which he was afraid he'd broken. All he needed was a police brutality case against him, especially with someone who wasn't in their right state of mind. Instead there's clumping puddles of scarlet flooding around his legs. He finally feels the reserved wetness on the side of his face. The thick stickiness and inability to twitch a few facial muscles fully. He takes the shirt.

At the hospital they stick a needle into his meatloafed face. Freeze away the pain while they knead and sew two halves together. He sits on the gurney, pastel bumpy blue sheet draped over his shoulder to catch any escapee drops. The tissue paper thin layer clashes dramatically with is black t-shirt. He doesn't say a word. Had stitches once in childhood. A bully on the base shoved a stick in the spokes of his bike and he flew off and onto the gravely road. Took ten to the leg. Cried all the way through it and when he got home The General just hurt him worse.

A precinct paid taxi drives him back to the SRU where all the team is waiting. Minus one. The one he wants to see. The guys slap his shoulder; his perfectly blood free shoulder thanks to a bumpy blue sheet. They tell him it's not that bad. The stitches run from his cheekbone almost down to his chin. He doesn't even know how many stitches there are in his face. He lost count. Didn't think to ask.

Each guy offers to buy him a round, because that's how he's satiated lately. Find an angry Sam and calm him with a tall and frosty. He declines and creates some fable about how he's not supposed to drink because alcohol disagrees with anesthetic they used, but tomorrow night. Tomorrow night. The Team shares laughs, because their faces aren't marred and then disappear from the locker room. He lags a minute, wondering if he should peek beneath the flat layer of gauze resting on his face.

Deciding against it, he changes into his jeans and a different t-shirt. Doesn't know why. He has nowhere to go besides home. Maybe just routine. When he leaves the locker room he hears the echoes. Rustling from within her locker room. Reverberations of a past life. He stops and contemplates a moment, just like with the gauze, if he should approach her. She didn't come out to greet him. Maybe didn't know. Maybe wasn't ready. She does take forever.

He knocks on the door to her locker room. Well the door to the women's locker room now. Since Leah joined the SRU they took down Jules' sign. He wonders where they put it, where they got it. Was it some kind of joke or some kind of penance? The guys have a tendency to forget Jules doesn't quite see everything the same way they do. Maybe she complained one too many times about the gender differences and they bought it for her as a gag, or as proof that they really didn't think of her as that different. Or that she's more different than she thinks. Maybe she just grew tired of always being alone.

"Just one second." She calls from inside. Her voice is muffled hidden by a door and possibly a shirt being ripped on over her head. There's a clatter and he imagines her face blinded by the fabric, wild limbs knocking over something from her vanity.

Memories boil and burst in his brain. Secret minutes spent after the shift, going stealth into her locker room although she preferred to meet at a less conspicuous location. Watching her brush out her hair, lean over the counter to balance a few inches from the mirror to reapply her makeup, simple common couple acts that made him think they could have it all. Made him just revel in her beauty.

"Decent."

He turns past the sharp ninety degree angle and finds her perched against the counter just as he remembers. Hand carefully applying mascara to a widened eye. She watches him from her peripherals. The black tank top she's wearing has tangled straps, an indication of how fast she pulled it on. The material stretches across her stomach and breasts, which appear larger to him. Skewed memory from facial lacerations and injections. From singed and bisected nerves. From encapsulating and all swallowing loneliness.

The applicator drops from her hand, clatters to the counter probably globing the inky gunk in thick droplets. She hugs him hard. It's a nice change from the usual powerful punch she pounds into his shoulder. Her arms wrap around his neck and her face squishes against his chest. He's unsure what to do with his hands. They haven't really been this intimate since they've been intimate. Stopped being intimate. It's nice. It's refreshing. It's right.

She pulls back, not caring about his lack of response. Her eyes are teary and her bottom lip semi-trembles in the green lighting of the locker room. If they don't move more, the lights are likely to turn off to reserve energy. Her hand grazes over the side of his face that made the gift shop in the CN Tower look like a slaughter house floor. "You scared me so much."

He chuckles, but it gets caught in a lump in his throat because she's close. So close and instead it comes off as an arrogant snort. He didn't mean it, but maybe she knows, because she ignores it. In a daring move, he captures her hand from his face, removing it from the ridiculous number of stitches. "I'm fine."

"I know. You can handle yourself." She agrees, retrieves her hand from his. It hangs so limply at her side and there are so many other things he'd rather be doing with it. "But after Lew and Steve."

And her voice cuts out. Just turns off. Bottom lip does a jive and she turns her head away before he can see the first fat tear fall. He's seen her cry before. Cried when Lew exploded. Cried after she was shot from the constant pain. Cried from having to relearn basic functions. Cried at the hospital, stationary outside the room containing Steve's corpse. These tears are different. Not for pain, or loss. They're warmer, caring concerning tears.

"Hey." He uses a gentle hand on her shoulder to turn her back towards him and finds her collapsing against his chest again. This time his hand trails up and down her spine as she sobs near silent. "Jules, I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

She nods against his chest, one of her hands trails down his arm to find his hand, and her fingers burrow, entwine with his. It's so unexpected but so natural. Her eyes are glassy when she glances up at him, wordless. Cheeks are just the right amount of flushed with the perfect mixture of sleekness from shed tears. He swallows fighting the urge to do anything. To brush her face with his thumb. To part her lips with his own. "You should know you can't get rid of me that easily."

She laughs a short crow's caw and then sniffs once, wiping at her eyes. "Sorry."

"No, it's—" He pauses. Thinks out his words very carefully. Knows there's an infinitesimal chance he and Jules could end up back together. But he doesn't want to risk anything he has with her now, her trust or her friendship for it. "It's nice to know someone cares."

Her lips fall into a straight thin line. Purse tightly and the evidence of tears is all but removed. She caught the word replacement of 'someone' for 'you'. "I'll always care."

He smiles at her. Watches a true blush creep across her chest, up her neck and onto her face. Remembers she gained the same color after they had sex. Remembers holding her and watching her skin redden with the evidence of their passion. "I have to—" she points to her bag, left open, dissected on the bench.

"Yeah." He agrees, seriously considers heading for the door. But something roots his feet in place. Maybe the glow of pain, radiating from his cheek despite the medication. Maybe it's just that he misses her, remembers how she was with Steve. Remembers how he felt when she was with Steve because they could have had that. All they needed was a conversation where he was an adult and realized what he had. That she was all he had.

He stops at the breakneck turn, rubs at the back of his neck. Neighboring nerves use wavelengths unknown to sting the side of his face. "You wouldn't want to go and get a beer or something? Just talk?"

She halts the zipper on her makeup bag, stares at him a second with an almost crinkled nose and a regretful smile. "I can't." He remembers that same expression from the gun lockup four months earlier. The reason was a maybe date with Steve.

"Oh. Yeah. No problem." He gets it. Gets she's not interested. Gets the friendship will be all he ever gets though he longs for so much more. He'll just have to be happy to have her partially in his life.

"No, not like that." She laughs and tucks the makeup bag away into her purse. A loose strand of hair falls around her cheek to frame her face. "Could we get dinner instead?"

"Yeah, sure." His answer is a little too quick. A little too eager. A little too obvious but he doesn't care. It may be a maybe date with Jules. It doesn't matter how he reacts. He leans against the wall, watches as she hesitates in putting up her hair. He hopes she doesn't. She leaves it down. He tells himself it's not a sign.

"So why no beer? Starting a summer cleanse?" He figures it has something to do with Steve's death. He doesn't know how individuals mourn; everyone does weirdly different unexplainable things. When his grandpa died his grandma only wore black for the rest of her life.

She laughs again, kind of forced, kind of awkward. "You know why."

His eyebrows arch and fall on his face in confusion. He really doesn't know why. But he doesn't want to screw this up. But then again how long can a relationship last when it's not based on full honesty. If he's really given a second chance he wants to do things right. "I don't." She wrenches her head up from the bag and he quickly adds, "But whatever."

"The guys didn't tell you?"

Now he's starting to get worried. Leaves the comfort and embrace of the wall. Walks towards her, tries to piece together information he knows but can form a viable answer. He tries to keep an indifferent expression when he can feel the palms of his hands sweating wet. Feel the muscles in his face around his eventual scar twitching and tweaking the pain. "The guys haven't told me a thing."

She sighs, puts a hand to her chin and he grows fearful. What if something is wrong with her? Too many people in the sphere of his influence are falling like flies. She almost died on him once before, he can't take it again.

Her eyes meet his, brown irises unwavering, stable with only a hint of trepidation. "I'm pregnant Sam."

And it hits him worse than anything else she could have said because immediately after she speaks he runs over calendars and timelines in his head. Tries to figure out the last time they had sex and knows it's been almost a year. Throat closes off. "Oh."

"Don't you wonder why I never leave the truck?"

"I just—" He feels very hot, almost dizzy. He licks his bottom lip, tries to focus on anything but her, but now he can see it. The small protrusion through her shirt nestled just under her navel. The fact that her chest is larger and it wasn't his pain distorted slightly offensive version of the perfect female body. "I thought—" He can't stop looking now. Had the impression she was thinking about babies, but didn't think she was thinking thinking about babies. Didn't think she was this close to getting one. Always thought that they—"I thought you were taking it easy because of what happened with—"

She loses a bit of her grin and a hand falls to the bump. It's smaller than a fist, but hits him as hard. Hurts him more than the manic prowling in the CN Tower gift shop with a knife. "Steve didn't know about this."

And the rage he feels against Steve borderlines on hate. Who is he kidding, he fucking hates Steve. The guy who swoops in from nowhere and wins her over in less than a week. Just because they may have gone to high school together. Just because Steve may have seen her sing, when she refused to sing for him. Just because Steve may have gotten beaten up by people she hung around with. "I think I'm going to take a rain check on dinner."

"Oh." For a second, her expression crashes into authentic hurt. Newly mascaraed lashes droop and flex with the swirls of eye shadow. Lower lip even does a gasp of a pout before her face clears away any emotion and bricks itself up stoic. All remaining objects are quickly shoved into her purse without a care. "Yeah. No I get it."

"I've got—" Nothing. He has nothing to do. Has wanted nothing but this since they made the semi-mutual decision to revoke dinner privileges from each other. Wants to watch her laugh in the dim light of a romantic restaurant. Or in a crowded sports bar where there are too many bowls of peanuts which she constantly complains about. But now he can't, because she'll never be his again. Not just his.

"No I get it, Sam." Voice harsher, speaking with authority and understanding. Understanding what he thinks of her now. What she means to him now. What she's done to herself. "This isn't your mess."

"Jules, I didn't mean—" But she's already pissed off. Already gone. Already has her mind made up because he already has his made up. Because she's right. As much as he wants it to be, this isn't his mess.

* * *

><p><em>Next Chapter - Hot call gone wrong. Well more wrong then Slashy Mcfaceripper. Well not really more wrong, just more angsty. It's all Craig's fault really. You'll see.<br>_


	3. Baby Teeth and Barley

_A/N__: Hey guys. Just a few quick notes. Each chapter will be roughly estimated as a month elapsing in time unless otherwise directly stated within the narrative flow (yeah I went all college). So it says differently in this narrative flow, therefore it's been more than one month.  
>Also Sam doesn't mention the scar in this chapter because I don't think Sam would be big on the self pity especially with all the other crap that's happening, it also just didn't fit well with the flow. Don't worry, it comes back. Magically. Like a Deus Ex Machina. I'm kidding. But it is mentioned again. I just didn't want you to think I'd forgotten about it and went strolling with a parasol in the park instead or something.<br>Lastly thanks to everyone who reviewed/favorited/alerted and of course read. I'm glad you guys decided to stick around and are generally excited about the aptly nicknamed 'Steve's a Baby-Daddy' story. I'm currently finishing up chapter 6 out of 10 but I might make the story an uneven and unholy 11 chapters just for some baby fun.  
><em>

Illegitimate

Chapter 3

Baby Teeth and Barley

The guys do know. Didn't say a word. A big storm cloud full of rumors rolls over his head. He asks Sarge why such vital information wasn't conveyed and his boss replies that it wasn't his information to give. When he approaches Ed with the same question, Ed answers that a pregnancy isn't exactly something Jules could hide forever. The bet the rest of the team had going for when he would figure out was more entertaining than sitting him down and explaining the biology of the situation. Wordy wins the pool. Buys him a beer. The all appeasing effects of hops and barley.

They don't communicate much, not after what happened in her locker room. Not after he had an average reaction caused by his heart collapsing along with the jumpstarting pain in his face. Not after she took offense to his natural response and left him to sulk until the environmentally friendly lighting left him in the dark, sitting on one of her benches and imagining what her future is going to be like carting around a baby, then a toddler, then a kid by herself. Imagining how much better her future would be if Steve didn't catch a bullet with his chest. Thinking about how much worse his life would be if Steve didn't.

He deals with her in abstractions instead. Through chain events or multimedia. Drives in a rig with Ed and overhears through the comm. link how her and Wordy have stopped off at a fast food place because she needs a milkshake. Listens to Ed and Wordy debate whether she should find out the baby's gender or not. Ed is for, Wordy is against.

" There's no greater surprise in life."

"Except because you wanted a surprise, you didn't prepare for anything. Find out what it is."

"I think Ed just wants to know what it is."

"I just think we've had a lull in boys being born at the SRU, that's all."

Halfway through the conversation she's usually gone. Hand in a bag full of something to snack on and walking away to somewhere less forcefully helpful. Less judgmental in opinion. Never to him.

The small speed bump on her stomach grows, becomes more pronounced until there's no mistaking her condition. It's still comfortably cloaked in her uniform, not straining on the fabric for freedom yet. But on her personal clothing choices it's noticeable. Her stomach distends over her waistband, body creates a curvacious 's' to accommodate the weight. He wonders just how long it would have taken him to notice if she didn't flat out tell him. He appreciates her honesty. Lesser people would have run. He ran.

Doesn't exactly know how far along she is, but two days ago he overheard her talking with Sarge about feeling the baby move. The excitement in her voice, the mannerisms of her hands. It was the first time she genuinely smiled since the locker room. Smiled despite the situation because she was so thrilled, so proud. The first time she's been this way since before Steve died.

He struggles to satiate the burrowing hole in his being with the company of other women. Enters into trysts which he hopes flourish but always wilt with a quick diminishing optimism. Girls from bars, from coffee shops, from grocery stores, from the gym. Blonde, brunette, or red-head. He doesn't have a type. For five weeks dates just as many girls, thin lips, fat lips, thin hips, wide hips, as tall as him, shorter than him, athletic, lethargic, naïve in youth, scorned in experience. None of them work for him, all delightful in their own way but lack a vital mechanic. He knows he has a type and it's tragic because it's her.

It's a ruminating afternoon when they get a hot call for a bomb scare in an office building. On hot calls they all treat her the same way. Vault her up in the back of the truck. Would padlock it if they could because she's not so much a liability as a constant concern. They all feel it. Sarge has a talk with them at about how they should start treating her differently without outwardly treating her differently. About how if anything happens to her now, it happens to two people. Ed asks when she's going to take maternity leave. Sarge just laughs because legally they can't force Jules to leave and physically they can't force Jules to leave. She'll go when she wants to and not before.

The hot call is refreshingly aided by security guard named Craig from the building. He knows the place inside and out. Offers them secure locations where past suspicious packages have been left, gives them suggestions for other areas. It's so refreshing none of them challenges him. Until his helpfulness borders on intent. They sew together the bits of Craig conversations while Wordy searches the security desk and recovers schematics for a small handheld bomb which could detonate a building if appropriately fueled.

The team's voices claw over each other for dominance in the discussion which ensues. Sarge tries to get the major information points, Ed demands to know what direction Craig took off in, Spike declares the perimeter around the building be doubled. Finally he asks the logical, "Who was the last one to speak to the guard?"

"He was helping Jules scan through security footage in the truck a few minutes ago."

His eyes snap up. Check the passive black eyesore through bay windows across the atrium. It's still idle. Still in place. Timeless. But the rest of them infuse with the panic, the team's secondary responsibility going unattained.

"Jules, get out of the van," Ed demands, voice grating like gravel under tires with sternness. They all adopt the same swift-legged gait towards the front door. "Boss, you have to pull back the crowd."

"What?" Jules languid voice sparks to life on the other end of the comm. link. She's tired today. Dragging a bit. Ed joked earlier about this being the time to have her do the physical portion of her requalifying exams. She replied that in roughly five months she'll be doing a physical drill none of them will be required to do. He smiled inwardly.

"What's going on Eddy?"

Ed covers up the speaker piece of his link and over the shoulder mutters, "Spike how far do we need it expanded?"

"Another twenty feet."

"Pull them back another twenty feet Boss." They're halfway to the door. The sound of four pairs of boots over the floors, echoing off three storey high atrium walls. Clomping. Timed clomps in a march. The army still leeches. Truck hasn't emptied. She hasn't gotten out yet. Why hasn't she gotten out? She needs to get out. "Jules, out of the truck now."

"Look, it's nice that you guys want to see my face but—"

"Jules, get out of the goddamn truck." It pours out, like drinking hot coffee too fast, touches the tip of his tongue and drips back out onto the ground. Or when he's already too drunk and can't hold his liquor anymore and it rolls down his chin. His veins tighten and pop. He won't be an inactive spectator watching her get charbroiled inside the impenetrable skeleton of the truck.

But then it happens. Happens in slow motion. Starts in the middle of the truck, red combustion shoots it up in the air. A fireball in the middle of downtown Toronto, igniting upwards in the gray May sky and slamming down so hard on the ground two wheels shoot off. One of them propels through the high atrium windows and skims by them. It lodges in the empty space between the modern stairs. The event causes the team to flinch back as a whole. Causes mystical orange shadows to dance across the spotless white tiles and their faces. Smoke ballets, twists and en pointes into the sky. A charcoal smudge.

"No." He wants to scream it like his last comment, but it comes out strangled in his throat. He tries to run towards the wreckage, the empty husk of a vehicle the fire gnaws away at, a hungry dog with a bone, but Ed hooks an arm around his. Wordy, expressionless except for two crashed eyebrows, grabs his other arm and hold they him in place. "No, no, no, no."

"I repeat, Sarge, Jules come in." Ed's voice is disrupted by his entangled arm attempting to break free. Spike doesn't move, twitch, blink or speak. He's having Lew flashbacks.

"I'm here Eddy," Sarge replies after a few seconds, voice winded. "Just a little shocked."

"Is Jules with you?"

"Jules is in the truck."

He wants to throw up. Can literally feel every organ, every vein, every fiber and cell in his body. His stomach boulders and his knees knock underneath the weigh because outside the window the truck still smolders like a morbid campfire. Through the broken pane the smell of gas, exhaust, and smoke suffocates him.

"Greg." Ed chokes; all of them glassy eyed watching the vehicle like moths to flames. The innate sense of team protection, of male responsibilities literally aflame before them. They wanted to padlock her in. "The truck is what exploded."

There's the long hiss of static. "No—"

But a few curt coughs and a groan interrupt premature lamentations. "I'm here."

"Jules?" Sarge's voice raises its registry a few octaves. The arms restraining him drop and suddenly become forceful jovial slaps on his shoulder and back.

"Yeah I was going to say that I was doing crowd control. You guys were arguing about it but no one was doing it."

"I told you to stay in the truck."

"And look how well that would have turned out."

"Are you hurt?"

"I might have scraped my knee. I think I'll live."

In all honesty he doesn't hear the remainder of the comm. link argument between Sarge and Jules who are likely only a block apart. The relief manifests in a wave of complete relaxation. Stomach boulder pebbles away, disintegrates, and his body uncoils. For the minute the team remains motionless, the minute he understands Jules and unborn baby Callaghan are in perfect health, the puncture in his being is filled.

Wordy and Spike end up catching unbalanced Craig who just likes to see fires. Different types of fires. All kinds of fires. Never saw a vehicle explode which is why he planted the bomb there. While they're tracking the security guard down to the alleyway only six blocks away and listening to his somewhat erotic explanation of arson, Sarge convinces Jules to go to the hospital. Her only physical injury is a scraped knee. It's the back draft of masculine duty, ensuring she's okay. They imagined her exploded, so now overcompensation is in order.

At the end of the shift he lags in the locker room. Sits on a bench with his shirt ringing between his hands, wondering what the fuck he's actually been doing for the past five weeks. For the past year. Since he moved to Toronto. Mentally charts what he wants out of life and in a perfect world, how quickly he would want it. House, wife, kids, how many, dog. Does it have to be in Toronto? He feels like he lost all his baby teeth here, and new ones just aren't growing in.

Then the door opens, he doesn't bother getting up because he figures it one of the nameless faces from the next shift, from another team. But it's not the tall guy with muscles. Or the tall skinny lean guy. Or the tall guy with more muscles than the first guy.

She's wearing jeans and a gray zip-up sweater. Stomach poking out like she overstuffed the front pockets with tissue, a habit she adopts when she's sick. She's not sick. The bump sort of has an apex, a point to it. He wonders if it's because she's early on in her pregnancy, or if it will never round. Wonders if he'll get to see her when she's further along. When she waddles.

"Oh sorry." She stops abruptly and her sneakers squeak against the linoleum floor. It's still a little wet with condensation from the long mulling shower he took in which he made zero life altering choices.

"No, it's fine." He stands, and realizes as the air hits his stomach that he's shirtless. The top unfurls and she's momentarily blocked from his view as he pulls it on over his head.

"Did Sarge leave yet?" There's a coy smile playing at the corner of her lips and he recognizes it as excitement. Maybe she's feeling the adrenaline rush from not blowing up.

"Yeah, maybe half an hour ago."

"Oh really," Mirth drains from her voice, her expression. She examines him with a tilted head. "Half an hour? Jesus Braddock, you're getting slow."

He only manages a half smile at her quip and busies his hands with packing up his gym bag. "Everything go okay at the hospital?"

"Oh yeah." She laughs and reclines against the dip in the wall. The pot lights accent her curves. Halos her hair, the top of her stomach, side of her right thigh. With a deep inhalation she rests her left hand on her bump. "They wanted to kick me out because of the scraped knee, but I told them what happened and they gave me an ultrasound."

"Really?" Doesn't know why this interests him. Doesn't really know what she would have seen or expected. Just blobs on blobs like in an abstract art museum. Under appreciated unless viewed by the right person. "Is everything—?"

"Everything's fine." Thumb scoops down the dip, the peak at her navel and she wears the calmest of smiles. "It's just really surreal seeing what's going on in there. Little fingers. Little toes."

She senses the awkwardness that her words instill. The awkwardness her hand flaunting her stomach exudes. The awkwardness conceptualized in vast silence. "Anyways, I'll leave you to your dawdling. Hopefully you'll get home in time to sleep before the next shift."

"Yeah, hopefully." He laughs into the gutted interior of his locker, reverberates like a cavern. Watches her ponytail sway like a pendulum while she walks away. Might be wishful thinking but her athletic steps seem to evolve into a pre-waddle. Just observing her, interacting with her since he inadvertently snubbed her relives him. Revives him in the way that hearing her voice did while watching a burning truck acting as a coffin's proxy. "Jules?"

"Yeah?"

"It was a long two minutes before we knew you weren't in the truck."

"I'm okay."

"Yeah." Nodding, he catches her eyes from across the room and remembers. Really remembers. How her lips are just the right plumpness and never leave stains of makeup on his face. How his body looms over hers and it gives him a false sense of security in protecting her. How her hips fit perfectly in his cupped and kneading hands. How she's always been the right mixture of everything. "I'm glad."

"Me too. Goodnight Sam."

The door snaps closed behind her with a whoosh of quick air. He hates Steve. The hatred boils and simmers eventually waning because Jules, she was never really his, or Steve's. Never really anybody's but her own. But he hates Steve because of the majority of his meditations bring up the same question. Why me? Or better yet. Why him? Why Steve? He dated Jules longer, took better care of her and loved her through her bulleted body. Why did Steve get first prize? Why did Steve get to create this mess and leave? Why is Jules so happy to be part of something so unplanned? Something so completely misplaced that the whole team acts differently now. Why despite everything, does he want to be a part of this mess?

* * *

><p><em>Next Chapter - Unbeknownst changes happen. Imperative decisions are made. And dandelions.<em>


	4. The Adopted Rain Check

_A/N: Hey guys. Giving you a quick update. I kinda have a car crash of 3 midterms within 24 hours this week which I plan to go mildly crazy before, then delusional, then into a Matrix-like state to recover the answers from buried deep within my subconscious while at the same time fighting the machines. So there will be no update until around Friday or Saturday this week. But I have a week off which during that time I can probably finish the story which has now been bumped to twelve chapters mainly because I'm not good with planning and because I wanted to play with the baby. At this point I have about 4 1/2 chapters to write. So yay.  
>Thanks to everyone who reviewedfavorited/alerted and of course read. As always I'm glad you find value in anything I write and appreciate you sticking with me. Out of my pure curiosity, I'm wondering if you would want the baby to be boy or girl and why? I'm just interested is all.  
><em>

Illegitimate

Chapter 4

The Adopted Rain Check

He rings the doorbell and waits. Summer barren porch, terracotta planters filled with dirt and bark chunks but no signs of life. There are already too many signs of life. He still hasn't made a conscious decision. Said he would. Said he wouldn't approach her, couldn't approach her until he did. But he hasn't. Still feels bitter, somehow betrayed by the whole situation. Like she prematurely started the life they were supposed to have together. The family they were supposed to have together.

But this wouldn't be his family. He's just a tag, a seat filler for someone who couldn't make it to the party. He still cares for her. Still loves her. Started loving her and just couldn't turn it off. Couldn't stop. But the baby, who would grow into a child, it wouldn't be his. It might treat him like it, but deep down inside he'd know it's Steve the fucking paramedic's kid. Steve who's still fucking things up from beyond the grave. Even if he grew to love the kid, he'd still be jealous.

The door opens with a crack, the wood stretching in the new humidity. Her hair is half up in a ponytail, bangs hanging in her eyes. She's wearing a navy blue long-sleeved shirt. The sleeves rolled up to the middle of her biceps. The buttons leading down from the collar splay open because there's no way of closing them. She has one hand casually dipping into the front pocket on her jeans, snaking around the distinct bump. Like half a basketball is shoved underneath her shirt. It's compact and adorable. She's gorgeous and glowing. Within the matter of two seconds he's decided.

"Sam." Her lips press into a reserved grin and she relaxes against the door. He immediately thinks it's too heavy. A few weeks ago when he came into work she was gone. After his inner panic ran its course, Sarge delivered the news to him. She was feeling anxious after what happened with the truck, so she transferred to the fourth floor. To a mountain of paperwork and a stationary desk for the rest of her pregnancy.

He was pissed. Pissed because she doesn't share things with him that the rest of the team already know. Pissed because he somehow thinks he's still entitled to know these things. Pissed because she was gone now and it was likely the next time they met she would have Steve the fucking paramedic's baby. Upon seeing her he's immediately relieved. It was the right choice. He's glad she's safe.

"What are you doing here?"

"I missed you yesterday."

She ascended on a brief sojourn from the remedial duties of the fourth floor to visit. Probably heard the day was pretty slow and figured the team would be working out or running drills. Spike greeted her with a loud exclamation which gave him enough time to duck into the locker room and stock everything in sight. He couldn't do it. Couldn't face her. Couldn't have the candy dangled in front of his nose. He only tiptoed out when he was sure she was gone. Found a double double for him in the dim spotlight on Winnie's desk. Even after the way he left things in the neutral negative. "I was doing restock."

Her grin widens, gains more geniality, and she steps back from the door to let him into her house. He hasn't been in her house since he was with her. Since he brought her back from the hospital and lied next to her. Awake all night long because he was terrified something would happen to her if he closed his eyes. The last time he closed his eyes, when he opened them she was on the rooftop gasping for air.

The house is in disarray, it's as messy as he's ever seen it. Stacks of baby books litter the coffee table, huddle around the edge of her couch. A coffee mug balances precariously on one teetering stack. Clothes are thrown over the back of the couch, over the arm, reach out from beneath the throw pillows. There are plastic bags filled with hidden objects in congregation near the bottom of her stairs. He wonders if she already had the baby.

"Sorry for the mess. I've been working overtime and double shifts." Shoulders shrug a little with defense, a little with shame. "When I get home all I can manage is to eat and pass out. I never find the time to clean."

"It's fine." It's shockingly different and his heart wilts a little. Her house was always in perfect condition. Always spotless, always welcoming. For it to be in a pre-hoarder state means that she's hating herself for letting it get this way. It means she's more tired than she's letting on. There were times when they worked twelve hour shifts and she would still come home, do a load of laundry and clean the bathrooms. "It's what weekends are for right?"

"Oh yeah." She laughs once full of scorn and finally shuts the door behind him since he hasn't dashed down the walkway and to the sanctuary of his car. "My grocery shopping just took me three times as long, cost me twice as much, and I had to have a nap when I got home."

The moist summer wind from outside carries through the house in a circuit from all the open windows. It's refreshing. She starts cleaning because now that someone is actually inside her house, someone who knows how it usually looks, the shame is real. "At least it's for a good cause."

Half-bending, or bending as much as she can now, she smiles again. This one is genuine. Full of serenity. Hand ghosts over her stomach, but doesn't quite land. Maybe she doesn't want to make him uncomfortable. "I think so."

He grabs a handful of plastic bags and treks them to the kitchen. "Does everything still go in the same place or did you get a heads up on baby proofing?" He mentions it first just to show her he's not uncomfortable with it. He's not. He's resentful and goddamn it, he'll probably be insanely jealous until the day he dies, but he's not uncomfortable.

"Oh Sam, you don't have to help." She drops clothes on the ground. Clothes too big for her. Too big for just her.

"What kind of—" Friend? Ex-lover? Ex-lover with only the cleanest of intentions? Human being? "Teammate" Teammate? Really? "Would I be if I left you to do this by yourself." Doesn't say anything about her condition because he knows Jules, and to her it's not a condition. She's pregnant; it's not a medical emergency although when she bends at her waist to collect the clothing she dropped his breath hitches in his throat. It's still surreal. For the last two months he's watched her grow, not really pop, just semi-inflate. Now she's at pre-popping point. Getting big enough that she might have a pillow shoved up there. God he wishes it was a pillow.

Old Jules, even gunshot wound Jules, would argue with him for attempting to help. Bitch him out. Insert something about sexual double standards and how she can do everything she needs to do by herself. New Jules, pre-popping Jules, doesn't. She tucks a longer bang behind her ear and sets the mug on a plate she discovered beneath a baby book as thick as _War and Peace_.

"Thank you Sam." Voice soft, sincere and in her shared moment with him he can see the exhaustion break through the mask she's created. Peek around the corners of her eyes to droop her eyelids. Dampen the pregnancy glow. "I really appreciate it."

He nods in return. After two more parallel trips, all of her groceries are in the kitchen. He unpacks the bags and marvels at the amount of food. The vastness of it. He wonders how often she eats now, because she didn't eat that much before. It worried him. Maybe two solid meals a day. Sometimes had a beer with him while they watched a game. That tradition is definitely dead.

She disappears for a few moments and he realizes she's in the basement. Sure she can do her own laundry. Sure she's done it up to this point. But she probably had a big hamper full of clothes and she's already wobbly on her feet, though not quite waddling. He could have done the heavy lifting. Finally she reappears, a little winded, at the top of the basement steps. He relaxes his grip on a vegetable, a green leafy vegetable he's never seen before in his life. "What the hell is this?"

Leaning forward a little on her toes she examines the food. "Oh, that's dandelion."

"Why are you eating dandelion?" He doesn't even know how to clean it. Doesn't even know the proper way it's supposed to be served. With what? He twists off the bulbous stems because the anxiety of imagining Jules passed out on the floor in her unfinished basement already started the process.

She laughs from the open living room. Sliding books back onto the stairwell shelves. Two tall stacks gathered at her feet. "I'm craving a lot of leafy greens. A lot of salads. Just salads every day. For every meal."

"At least it's a healthy craving."

"Oh yeah, you don't get to see me walk around the fourth floor with a mixing bowl full of salad."

He wishes he could. Maybe on a slow day he'll duck down to the fourth floor and catch her. Admire her from afar. Watch her hug the bowl to her chest as she shovels in fork after fork of dandelion. Instead he laughs.

Her arm extends to the highest shelf, just barely connecting with it as she slides yet another pregnancy book into place. She must have at least fifteen and he wonders if this is a rare instance of her panicking. He's only ever seen her do it on the job when someone was injured. Wonders if it manifests a different way for the baby. "You have a lot of books."

"I know."

"Have you read them all?"

"Getting close to it." The final book slides in place and she returns to the kitchen to help him with the remainder of the groceries, which are just clear plastic bags of leafy greens.

"Why so many?"

"I guess it's the same reason I work so many hours." She takes romaine lettuce out of a bag and runs it underneath the sink in the island. "I need the income of two people. I need the knowledge of two people."

And he's never hated Steve so fucking much in his life. The asshole waltzes in and steals Jules away with hokey Hat high school talk. Manages to get her pregnant, which he still is confident wasn't a complete accident on Steve's part, and then leaves. Sure the guy is dead and he didn't know she was pregnant, but he still left. Left her with the pieces of her life to pick up. Left her with the pieces of another life to put together. All by herself. And he hates Steve because if he was in that position he would have done things so differently. He hates Steve because he could have been in that position if there was any fairness in the universe.

Finally, after switching the laundry over and washing four more types of lettuce, the first floor of her house appears to have some semblance of its prior life.

Standing with her hands on her rapidly disappearing hips, she admires the new state of her living room with an approving nod. Turns back to the kitchen where he's finishing wiping the final smudges off the counter. He doesn't know what she eats when she's not eating salad, but it contains permanent marker. "Thank you so much Sam. This would've taken me forever."

"Don't worry about it." He waves her off, just satisfied with having spent a couple of hours with her. Feeling the euphoric familiarity creep back into his tattered life. Watch as she adjusted to her new body the way he did. They can barely fit behind each other when secured between the kitchen counter and the island. Appeased just to have brought some comfort back into her life.

"Really, I mean it. If there's anything I can ever do for you."

He stops swiping at the counter. It's the segue he's been praying for. After an instance of apprehension measured in a single blink, he pulls a lopsided grin. "Actually there is something you could do."

"Name it."

"You could have dinner with me tonight."

She freezes for half a minute. Not really the result he expected but considering how he left things with her it's preferential to most of the outcomes. He's still mildly surprised she let him into her house. Her wide eyes finally blink and lips unroll. "You. Want to have dinner. With me?"

"Yeah. Tonight."

Eyebrows crux and eyelids squint as she examines him with a slightly tilted head. Trying to figure out his motives. "You want me to have dinner with you tonight?"

"Yeah, that's another way to say it." Rests the soggy dishcloth on top of piled and dyed food to loosen it. "What's the problem?"

"Sam, you may not have noticed but—" She arches her back, shooting out her protruding stomach. Showcases it with a dainty swoop of her hand. "I come with some pretty significant baggage."

"So?"

"So why the hell would you want to go to dinner with me?"

His hand touches the top of the counter, still crusty with mixture of half masticated dried food and permanent marker. He leans forward, half resting in her personal space and in a hushed whisper elucidates, "Not to get technical Jules, but I'm pretty sure I took a rain check on this dinner."

"Hmm." Lips purse and she mimics his actions, one hand on the counter. Then with a pout she leans forward into his space and replies, "Well not to get logical, but you do realize I've just spent a small fortune on groceries which could've gone towards my baby's college fund."

"There's a new Italian place that opened up a few blocks from my apartment." He walks around her, leaving her still slightly stunned in the middle of an almost pristine kitchen. The sun is setting outside blasting her front room full of a bright orange light. The wind gusting through the open windows is no longer balmy and caressing, but growing harsh and cold. He shuts the middle front window for her because he remembers it sticks in humid weather. "I hear they make great salads."

Light footsteps pad into the living room behind him. She gnaws on her bottom lip while mulling the idea over. "It's really tempting."

"Go get ready and I'll finish closing the windows down here."

"I have really high standards Sam."

"Which is why you're going to dinner with me."

She rolls her eyes and in the twilight seeping through the split blinds she looks absolutely gorgeous. He wants this life. He always wanted this life. If Steve was too much of an idiot to leave it in shambles, he doesn't mind helping her rebuild it. Doesn't mind being the tag in. "No, I mean if they don't get my salad right I'm going to get upset."

"So send it back."

"So you're okay if I cry when the waiter doesn't bring the salad to me the way I asked."

"Only if you're okay with me punching him if he makes you cry."

"Just let me get my purse."

* * *

><p><em>Next Chapter - Shit goes down. (But Shiggity you say that every chapter). Fine familial shit goes down and borderline M-rated shenanigans are had.<br>_


	5. Served and Lifted

_A/N: A lot of notes for this sucker so I'll make it quick. First off **this chapter is rated SEMI-****M** so if you don't like reading things that happen in **M-RATED** chapters than you should probably skip this one. There you've been warned. Once more? **RATED KINDA M**. Now no one will get the vapors.  
>Secondly, I have very very very very infinitesimal working knowledge of laws and lawyers and how all that shit works. Basically what I know I've looked up on the internet or have learned through American lawyer commercials. So none of the law stuff is completely accurate. All of the pregnancy stuff is. So they even out I think.<br>Thirdly, I read through this very very very early in the morning so there are bound to be hoards of spelling and grammatical errors. But I wanted to update and you wanted it. We're both satisfied so why gripe? I'm aware of the downfalls of being human.  
>Lastly thank you for reviewingfavoriting/alerting/ and of course reading. I'm glad so many of you enjoyed the sickly sweet chapter that killed me a little inside to write (I'm kidding, that was actually the second chapter I wrote because this whole story is written so out of order it looks like a Nude Descending A Staircase. Hiyo). Everything is completely scripted and planned out (there may even be an epilogue (gasp). But Chapter 7 and it's action remains untouched. So hopefully I find inspiration somewhere._

Illegitimate

Chapter 5

Served and Lifted

Ironically, he sees more of Jules now that she's transferred departments than he did when they were on the same team. On slow days sometimes he manages to sneak away from restock or working out in order to linger around her immobile desk. She hates being anchored, complains her muscles and bones are tense and she wants to go back upstairs to the workout room. Most of the time she does have a large bowl of salad somewhere within arms reach among skyscrapers of paper. She reclines in a chair steadily losing its structural integrity which it voices with a howl. She's beyond adorable.

The team transfers into a surrogate family. Dissimilar men who each contribute different and welcomed traits to her lack of domestic support. Jules' coworkers complain in open loudmouthed and sour comments about the constant and changing rotation of men coming down to visit her. Before he thinks up a proper reason to arrest the blonde woman encroaching on middle age, Jules laughs almost sarcastically and in a louder voice states, "You think they forgot that I know how to use a sniper rifle. And that I'm really good at it."

House trips happen once a week. He prefers them to huffing down three flights of stairs to visit her. They're more intimate. It's not like they've been intimate, haven't done anything even considered remotely intimate although she did let him feel the baby kick last week.

They were sitting on her couch watching a host of bad sitcoms all strung so closely together they became too similar to distinguish. Her body contorting, back bending against the arm of the couch because she's starting to get muscle spasms. The muscles on her left side are weak from a particular armor piercing bullet so they contract and seize more often. Sometimes her left arm hangs limply, swings like a broken tree branch in a stormy wind while she bites into her lower lip. He only watches with a passive expression of pity.

The laugh tracks and her Cirque Du Soleil movements halt when her hand flies to her stomach. Immediately his mind delves into an onslaught of the worst scenarios. He refuses to watch any of the birthing shows with her. Doesn't think he can handle the mixed reality of viewing a birth, with her sitting beside him in a state that predestines her eventually giving birth. He also doesn't want to see her reaction to the event. Doesn't want to know that there's nothing he can do for her while she's in such a state of extreme pain and fear. Secretly in the safety of his own apartment he sneaks an episode in at five minute intervals. Freezes because of complications and actualities.

He starts and the opposite arm of the couch digs into his ribs. When he turns to her his hands juggle invisible nothings in the air. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah." She winces once, then stretches out her back. "It's just kicking hard."

"Oh."

"It's what I get for drinking juice."

"It's what you get for drinking that mango protein shit."

She laughs, fingers still caressing over the thin material on her white tank top. Her belly button sticks out like a hitchhiking thumb. "I can't have caffeine. I stopped drinking those shakes too. Just all natural stuff."

"Makes sense."

"Uh." She groans and rubs her fingertips in a circular motion. Her face washes off its pained expression and falls into a fat lipped pout as she examines her inanimate stomach.

"Still kicking?"

"Yeah." She balances her elbow on the arm of the couch, leans into the palm of her hand. "It keeps me up at night." In the same sentence she lunges forward for him, like it's a natural solution. "Give me your hand."

The whole moment is surreal. Her hand grasping his, cool fingers ringing around his, leading him to the thin cotton sheathing the bump. Immediately there's a flick from inside. Then a full out thump when his hand flattens to the curve of her stomach. He thinks the baby knows. Knows he's the wrong guy, that he doesn't belong. Doesn't have the right to be doing what he's doing. But Jules' hand is on top of his, and her face fills in the outlines of his, noses almost brushing and she's smiling while watching the interaction. It's almost enough to make him feel like he belongs, even under the bombardment protests coming from within her.

In the lightest of strokes, her thumb glides over the back of his hand. With a serene expression she enlightens, "I think it likes you. It never kicks this much."

After those words he starts to increase the frequency of his visits. Going down to the fourth floor once a day instead of once every few days. Trying to drop by her house more often in case she needs anything. In case she needs him. Just to be with her. Because she thinks it likes him.

She needs him. He stops by with a milkshake for her, in the July sun it perspires in his hand. Her house isn't much better. It's colossal, old and she doesn't have air conditioning. He wonders how the baby isn't slow roasting within her. He only means to stop by for a quick chat, just to make sure she's well rested, healthy, and her fridge is stocked. All those things he really shouldn't be doing but can't help. It's similar to after she was shot, no one else is stepping up. Also he kind of loves doing it.

Her face is sorrowful when she opens the door, phone glued to her ear. She beckons him in with a weak wave of her wrist and shuts the door silently behind him. He doesn't speak a word, and she hasn't said anything into the phone. He assumes she's listening to an important monologue from Shakespeare on the other end. Toeing off his shoes, he walks to put her milkshake in the fridge and finds the kitchen island a complete mess, the results of a hurricane which passed through her house, ripped up every book and stuck the pages to the counter. Envelopes and pieces of paper with professional looking type are strewn so wildly some overflow onto the stools.

Her fridge rests on near empty. A few bottles of water, a rapidly decaying bundle of spinach, an empty carton of milk and now a milkshake. He sighs because she's working herself to exhaustion. Knows she pulled double overtime on Monday and Tuesday because everyone in her department is going away on their summer vacations. Knows she's already started up a college fund. Knows that upon Steve's death she received shit for his baby, and didn't go seeking compensation.

"Yeah." She nods into the phone while he tosses the spinach and the phantom milk into a curiously empty garbage bag. "Yeah, okay. Thanks." Her gratitude is mocking and she slams a thumb into the off button. Taps the phone to her chin a few times.

"What's wrong?"

"Yesterday when I was walking to my car I was served." She shoves the phone back into its base and then runs a shaky hand through her loose hair.

"As in tennis?"

Eyebrow arches with doubt as her elbows dig into the counter. Her hands cup the back of her neck and she's attempting to stretch out her back, pop it, but she can't arch it well anymore. She's wearing jeans that are too long for her and cuffed up at the hem and a long black tank top which stops at her hips. Her stomach has outgrown its basketball qualifications, is slowly intruding on beach ball territory. It has a more even and defined slope. Along with the addition of her pronounced stomach comes the waddle. He watches her when she leaves the couch for frequent bathroom breaks. Her hips swing of their own accord.

"As in sued."

"What?" He stands beside her and reexamines the papers, for the first time noting the actual intent on the documents. The signatures. The Latin. "For what?"

"Steve's mom and sister are suing me for full custody."

Steve and his whole fucked up Medicine Hat family. The only thing good to come out of that town is Jules. She clawed her way out. Steve dragged her back down. The rage he feels for Steve, the happy-go-lucky paramedic who knocked up the only woman he's ever loved, probably on purpose, is insurmountable and immeasurable. It's incomparable to any anger he's ever felt. He wants to meet these woman who think they have any claim to this baby. "You're fucking kidding me."

"Is what I said." She sighs and leans her head against the palms of her hands. Bangs spread through her fingers like water from a sprinkler. "It's not like I wouldn't have let her see the baby. I told her that at the funeral. I said I would make trips back just so they could visit."

"Then why sue?"

"Because apparently I'm endangering the baby's life by working at the SRU."

He groans, trying to sort through the mess of papers. There's a list three pages long of things Jules did before being pregnant. One five pages long of things she's done while pregnant which can be construed as endangering the baby. They want to take away her baby because she's exhausting herself while working overtime to support it.

"I phoned a lawyer and apparently they do have a case. That the best thing to do would be to settle on joint custody."

"What? That's ridiculous."

"Is what I said." Her chest heaves with her rapid breathing. Her fingers tremble against her forehead, bangs lazily slip through.

"Hey, you can't take this seriously."

She shoves away from the counter, stands with her hands where her hips should be. An action alluding to anger, which is false. She's not angry, she's terrified. Her eyes are unfocused and lost behind tears. Face flushes with their imminent arrival. "I have to, Sam. I have to because there's no one else to—" There is a hiccup in her voice and the first two fat tears slide down her cheeks. Land on her stomach.

"Okay. Okay." Grasping her wrist he pulls her into a half hug. Intends for it to be slack, but she curls up into his arms and against his chest. Her arms loop around his neck forcing his head to bow, to relish in her scent and the soft exposed skin in the crook of her neck. Her body still racks with noiseless sobs and each motion juts her stomach into him like a constant reminder. One hand finds the unnatural tightness in the small of her back, jagged muscles and protruding bones. The other rests on the side of her stomach, thumb skimming over the material. "It's going to be okay."

In a deep inhalation she twists her head back, asking him the question directly, "How do you know that?"

"Because you've got four guys at the SRU with multiple connections." He's swaying them a little, trying to lighten the situation. Understands its gravity, understands the repercussion of court and Steve's seared fingerprint on Jules' life now. But she's not alone. "They're not going to let this baby go. I'm not going to let this baby go."

Her arms unhook from his neck, slink down his arms until their fingers group. Arching forward she places the softest kiss on his cheek, right over the premature wrinkle in his face. The dried up riverbed of a depressed white scar. He remembers sluggish Sunday mornings when the same kiss used to wake him up. It should have been enough. But it wasn't. To dip his toe in the water and ripple it. To have only a sip of beer. He couldn't let her be this close and let her drift away again.

Her arms relax within his and as she starts to float away, he pulls her back. Lips crushing against hers. Not a violent or harsh action, just surprising and strong compared to the pebble of a peck left on his cheek. They're both surprised. In all honesty he didn't think he had the gall to risk their reconstructed relationship on such a gamble, but every cell in his body voted for the embrace. She lets out a small gasp against his lips, muffled by his own mouth. Not a disgusted response, but not an encouraging one either.

His lips pulse over hers, rigid and stationary. The rejection begins to bud in his gut, but then her lips respond. Open to his, mirror each movement with perfect artistic synchronization. His fingers rain down the side of her neck, hers mow through his hair and it's a perfect mixture of past and present.

He walks her backwards until the counter hinders her motion, pressing the small of her back forward, against him. They don't fit together quite as well as they used too. She gasps free of his mouth as he kisses the skin on her jaw, under her chin. It's encouraging now. Free hand clamps down on his bicep, fingers massaging in bursts as he starts to suck on her neck.

Moans muffle against his shoulder. Dipping his head is starting to lose its novelty and before he knows exactly what he's doing, both his hands are sliding over her ass. Strong thighs covert under oversized jeans, he cups and lifts her to the edge of the counter, still strewn with court documents.

Her hands grip his shoulders and hold him at a distance. "Did you just lift me?"

"Yeah?" A little breathless his hands try to rest on her hips, except he can't find them. He assumes she's irritated over the inadvertent paper crumpling. "I'm sorry."

"No, it's just—" She pauses and a shy smile graces her lips. A hand returns to the back of his neck, tickling skin. "I just didn't know I could be lifted anymore."

Despite appearances, she hasn't put on a lot of weight. He didn't notice a difference when he lifted her, not a comparable one anyways. It's still way easier than dragging Sarge across the floor. For a moment he's concerned, but her stomach is healthy enough to act as a makeshift barrier between them. He grins, lopsided. Not arrogant but suggestive. "You're very liftable."

Mirth drains from her face and the grip on his shoulder strengthens. "Sam, do you really want—"

His lips crash into hers seizing and splitting. Tongue darts into her mouth quickly circling with hers, dancing though there is no battle for dominance. She tugs at the bottom of his shirt and it's ripped over his head. Discarded among the court dates and rotting spinach. His hand tangles into her hair, softer and thicker than before.

When his lips start to roam over her neck, hers follow. Like a dance they invented and both remember the steps to. Her kisses are light and teasing along his jaw and neck down to the center of his chest. His hand leaves her hair and wanders over her shoulders. Kneads at a breast through her top, it's significantly larger and firmer than before.

"We can't do this here." It's a clumsy mumble against his lips.

He's already situated between her legs, one of her thighs in his hand. Knows even though her grinding against him is making him hard, it would be physically impossible to have sex on the counter in her current condition.

"Couch?" He half suggests more intent on finding the bottom of her shirt.

"Don't see that happening either. Upstairs."

They have sex in her bed. The act unfolds slowly because she's regained what can only be high school ideologies about her body image. He attempts several times to rid her of her tank top before he's actually successful. She apologizes for her bra not being nicer and he wants to tell her he's not offended she chose to wear something comfortable. She shouldn't be wearing clothes to please him. They continue kissing and groping for a long time because he's afraid to do anything else. Is still adjusting to just how big her breasts have grown within a lacey black bra. How big her pale stomach is even though she rests on her back beneath him. How there's a distorted red scar stretching with her skin. He tries not to stare at anything below her collarbone. Doesn't want to make her uncomfortable.

Finally, she reaches down and unzips his pants. He sighs loudly because the amount of friction between them downstairs started to get him hard. On her bed it's unbearable. Clothing is shucked at a faster pace. He unhooks her bra while she's straddling him, only after she gives an affirming moan into his neck. The first time is awkward and a little sloppy. Much like a second chance at a first time should be. They can't figure out the right positions, the right pacing. The second second time is perfect and satiating because there's nothing resting on it. It's unhurried and loving because all boundaries have already been crossed.

Afterwards, his hand falls across the hidden jut of her hip, the expanse of her stomach, and she physically stiffens. She doesn't say a word to him. Doesn't need to. He understands their actions, having sex; it doesn't immediately reignite the relationship. It doesn't necessarily mean a thing. It means he got careless and caught up in emotions and she was blinded by hormones and let him.

Without a single misplaced movement, a deeper exhalation or any tick that could support his regret at her denial, he disengages from her. Reclaims his draped arm and entwined legs to search for his clothing. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he finds his boxers on the floor. Twilight leaks in through the open window, shadowing over the trees and houses outside.

"Sam?" She half sits up in the bed. The floral sheet bunches at her breasts, sweeping down around her stomach. In the light it looks like the robe of a Greek Goddess.

He points to the door while zipping up his jeans. "I'm going to go."

"You don't have to. I mean—"

"No, it's fine."

But she's already redressing. Wriggling under the sheets while shimmying on her underwear, then glancing around the room for further pieces of clothing. He's almost fully dressed except for his shirt which is in the kitchen.

"Sam. Please?"

Now he sighs and rubs at the back of his neck. Her voice, the tremor in it. The emotion he's only ever heard from her few times before. He bends over, retrieving her shirt and stretches the opening in his hands. He wishes knew more about her, could feel free to ask her about her life, about what made her so afraid to love, to accept love. Made her afraid to let him see her in what she thinks are inferior positions. The physical weakness after she was shot. The physical changes in her body due to pregnancy. Maybe she values him, loves him and that's why she can't handle the idea of him giving her a negative response. He loves her. That's why he would never give her a negative anything.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, he guides the material of her shirt over her head. Watches her arms pop out of the sides and how black fabric replaces the thin cotton of the bed sheets. Rolls over her breasts and stomach. Her face is half lit, blossoming in the same post sex blush he remembers. The muscles in her jaw contract into a smile when he cups her cheek. The smile reverberates in their kiss. Slow and meaningful. He rests his forehead against hers, nose against nose and tucks her hair behind her ear.

One hand lands on his thigh as she shifts closer to him. A thumb brushes over his cheek, over his scar and he sighs again. Not out of frustration or desperation anymore. Contentment in her fingers and her hands and her breath on his lips.

"I don't want to sound clingy." She moves closer still. Chin resting on his bare shoulder, cheek against his neck. Firm breasts and stomach pressing into his chest. "But what exactly are we?"

"We're whatever you want us to be."

"What do you want us to be?"

He collects the hair cascading over her shoulder and places a chaste kiss on her skin glowing in the fading light. "You know how I feel."

"Sam." The tremor returns to her speech. She withdraws, eyes intent on his thigh, then the sheets, then her stomach where her hand falls. "You can't honestly tell me that you want to—"

He kisses her again, more powerful this time. It's imbued with all his adoration so she knows when he speaks, he speaks the truth. So she knows she's all he's ever wanted. So she knows raising a child with her, even if it isn't biologically his own, would be the most exciting and rewarding experience of his life. "I want to Jules. I love you and I will fall in love with this baby the moment I see it."

"But." She hesitates. Always hesitates at the most pivotal moments between them. Before their first kiss, before the first time they had sex, when he first saw her bullet scar, when she told him about Steve, when she told him about the pregnancy. Always afraid of him judging her. Instead she plays with his free hand. Thumbs masking over his knuckles. "It will never be yours Sam."

It's a completely logical conclusion, which is completely bullshit because she doesn't know how he feels. His hand rubs over her stomach, feels the weight of it. "In a way that doesn't matter, no it won't."

Her hands move his to the opposite side of her stomach. It's static within, but the gesture speaks when she can't.

"Steve will always be its biological father. I'm not saying deny it that information. But I could be there to do stuff that dads do." She stifles a yawn, her eyes suddenly cloudy and half lidded in the darkened room. He gestures for her to lie back and leans to rest beside her. "It doesn't even have to call me Dad. It can call me something else like—"

"Uncle Sam?"

He groans and kisses her shoulder again, draping an arm around her stomach and adjusting his body to lie directly behind her. "There are a few months to work on names."

A few minutes pass and her breathing regulates. He thinks she's asleep and he contemplates running out and getting a few quick groceries so when she wakes there will be a decent meal in the house. Before he can move she mutters half out of sleep, "I wouldn't mind if it called you Dad."

Nodding into her shoulder, he holds her tighter. "Neither would I."

* * *

><p><em>Next Chapter - Shit goes up. And then down. I will just say a BIG change happens. <em>


	6. Three Words

_A/N: Hey guys. First off, I don't even know how many chapters this story has anymore. I try to keep them short but then I keep thinking of more scenes, which logic states has to equal more chapters. At this point I kinda want it over because I miss my angst riddled Just-World. I'm pretty close to being finished though. I need to rework the last two chapters. I wrote one yesterday and hated it, so now I'm deleting __it __and restarting__ (I might as well have put unicorns throwing up rainbows and cupcakes while knitting sweaters from angora rabbit hair for the underprivileged to open at Christmas). It was too fluffy. Basically right now I have a few more scenes to write for other chapters and the full last two chapters. And the story is done. That was the thesis statement of this paragraph.  
>Also I owned all my midterms and got the highest grades in two of my classes. That's what Matrix trance does to you.<br>Lastly thanks to everyone who reviewed/favorited/alerted and of course, read. Glad you guys are enjoying the story and the relationship developing between Sam and Jules and I'm thoroughly looking forward to ruining it in the future for you. Because I'm Shiggity.  
><em>

Illegitimate

Chapter 6

Three Words

They reset. Fall into the same routine as their pre-rooftop bulletproof vest piercing ammo covert dating. The fourth floor workday ends half an hour earlier than the SRU's, but at the end of his shift, he drives directly to her house. By then she's situated comfortably in sweatpants and a tank top, usually in a near comatose state on the couch. They debate about supper, she flip-flops over what to eat, while he patiently accepts whatever she wants with a nod. Sometimes she throws out radical suggestions on the food pyramid just to see if he'll nod in agreement. He always does. They watch the same movies and TV shows from three years before.

It's different though. Better, because there's more trust. She lets him help more. Lets him mildly coerce her off the couch and out of the house for groceries, or general shopping, or a sluggish trundle around the block. Lets him take the grocery list on the days when she's too exhausted to turn on the television. Lets him do the laundry. He has a drawer in her dresser for his clothes. A spare uniform is tucked away in her closet.

August brings around balmy and humid weather. The temperature bursts each day to over thirty and it's enough to make a normal person weary. Jules is in her third trimester, waddles everywhere slowly and tires easily. The heat wave pushes her into a nauseous state. After the first day, finding her in her Jeep with the air conditioning on just for relief, he gave her the spare key to his apartment so she could take advantage of the central air.

Today Sarge decides to visit her because the team grumbled at the idea of driving around the city in thirty-three degree weather, even if it is inside the environmentally controlled cabin. Less than a minute later he reappears wiping at the phantom sweat from under his cap kept at bay from the innovations of technology. "Jules called in sick today."

"Can you blame her? If I had to carry around the weight of an extra person I wouldn't want to go out on a day like today."

"We all do it every day with you, Spike." Ed answers without missing a beat. They're in the briefing room going over various exit strategies from past hot calls and established drills. Anything to keep from going outside until the temperature has simmered.

"She's not answering her cell phone." Sarge adds and sits back down in the chair at the head of the table.

Before he left her house this morning, Jules didn't inform him she was going to call in sick although she was lagging. Most mornings they usually wake together, shower sometimes together, sometimes separately, and eat together. This morning when he got out of the shower she was still sleeping. He figures she's either still sleeping, or has gone to his apartment to escape the heat, which is why he's not worried. Only the rest of the team doesn't know about their relationship yet. Again. It's a mutual decision. "She's probably just taking it easy."

"I know." Sarge nods and sighs into his knuckles. "I just wish she would answer."

It's nice knowing that other people in the world care about her. About the baby. That if anything happens to him because Lew and Steve weren't enough, there's the rest of Team One to help Jules. He often forgets this because they don't assume as active a role as him, but they help out in different ways.

A few weeks ago when they all went out to dinner and he was forced to sit across the table from her, only sharing the briefest of sentimental glances, she enlightened the Team on her current legal situation. After the general rage cooled off, Ed immediately volunteered his friend, a respectful lawyer downtown, who would gladly represent her in court for free if 'he knew what was good for him'.

At the end of his shift, he phones her cell once and gets her voicemail, then decides to head to his apartment. Sure enough her Jeep is parked in the visitor's area and her phone is left on the passenger's seat. The doors are also unlocked and he shakes his head. She gets bad cases of pregnancy brain. When she's so focused on doing one thing, she forgets to do obvious other things. It's why he likes staying with her, making sure the doors are locked, the faucets are off, and the stove is off.

Retrieving her phone and locking the doors, he heads upstairs to his tenth floor apartment. She's lying on the couch in shorts and a t-shirt with the air conditioning on so high frost patterns might start to fractalize on the windows. The TV is on mute as the five o'clock news headlines scroll across the screen. He thinks she's sleeping. She is sleeping until he shuts the door, because she's always been a light sleeper and pregnancy only intensifies this aspect.

"Sam?"

"Hey Sweetheart." He sets down his bag and ignores the numbness pricking at his bare arms, just wants her to be comfortable. "How are you feeling?"

She's not comfortable. She shuffles on the couch so her back is against the arm. A hint of her stomach escapes from where her black t-shirt collects behind her body. "I'm so hot."

"Why don't you have a shower?"

"I don't have any clothes here." And she doesn't. They're usually at her house. Her big, empty, soon-to-be-full, greenhouse of a house.

"You should have just taken some of mine."

"I didn't want to without—"

"Jules." He shakes his head and sits on the opposite arm of the couch. Her phone digs in his pocket and he pulls it out. "You left this in your jeep."

"I know."

"Your doors were unlocked."

"I know. I remembered after I got up here and I just couldn't go back down."

He smiles and balances the phone on the top of her stomach. "Well the guys know you took today off, and I'm pretty sure they've been phoning you every ten minutes."

Her legs withdraw, offering him a third of the couch which he slides down into. It's burning from contact with her skin. While she checks her phone his hand readjusts her shirt, lulling over her stomach. The baby must be sleeping.

"I have forty-seven missed calls."

She calls Sarge which appeases over half of her missed calls. She laughs into the phone and her stomach bounces, tells their boss she's fine, just tired from the heat and that she left her cell phone in her Jeep which is entirely true. While she showers, he lays out some of his clothes for her to wear. Remembers when they dated in the middle of the night she would always end up sneaking into his clothes. Said they were closest to her on the ground. He didn't complain. Her wearing his clothes is a concrete sign of their intimacy. One only matched by a ring.

He orders a pizza and when he comes back home she's dressed in a pair of his boxers and a looser fitting t-shirt. She occupies the same spot on the couch, fingers brushing over her stomach absently like tree leaves creating ripples in water. The pizza is all but inhaled and she falls asleep almost immediately after, head on his shoulder as he flips through the channels for sports updates.

When they go to bed, he makes a point not to lie too close to her; he doesn't want to make her any more uncomfortable than she already is. But after a few minutes with the lights off she glances over her shoulder at him, tries to flail onto her side to face him but fails and remains stationary. "You're not going to move closer?"

"I didn't want to make you too hot."

She groans and he imagines it's accompanied by its usual eye roll. Her hand grasps his and leads him towards her. "Come on, and pass me that pillow."

He shifts towards her, handing her the pillow which she positions between her thighs and wraps his arms around her torso. She hugs him to her and together they drift to sleep while the baby thumps around within her.

"Sam?"

An unknown amount of time later, he's awoken with a sharp shove to his left shoulder. It's still dark out, still a few hours before dawn. He retracts his arms and throws his wrist over his eyes moaning in his sleep. Figures she just wants him to detach because he gets clingy in his sleep, especially with her. "Yeah?"

"Sam, something's wrong."

Three words erase any notion of fatigue in his body. Shoving up, he turns on a lamp almost knocking over the bedside table. Jules is sitting, half hunched over with both her hands on her stomach. Face contorted in a slight wince. Fear breaks through her pain knit eyebrows. "What's going on?"

"I don't know. I woke up and—" She squeezes his hand and gasps at the pain, breathing heavily through it.

"Okay." He's out of the bed pulling on the first pieces of clothing he can find. Single foot bouncing against the freezing hardwood floor as he rips icy jeans up his legs. He searches in the rim of light for a shirt, after a few spins on the spot he runs to a drawer and grabs a handful by accident. Leaves the extra two on the ground so it looks like his dresser spit up.

"Sam." The covers are off her legs. She's still dressed in one of his black t-shirts and a pair of his plaid boxers.

"Yeah." He agrees to the question she didn't have to ask. Supports her back and helps her up with a hand under her bicep. "It's going to be okay."

"It's too early."

"Your water didn't break, did it?" Arching backwards, he flips the sheets off the bed looking for any indication of moisture.

"No." She visibly relaxes as the pain leaves her body. He checks his alarm clock to see how far apart the contractions are. Didn't want to tell her, but he bought a few books himself. Wanted to be prepared in case anything like this happened. "I don't think so."

"I think we should go to the hospital anyway. Just to be safe."

He slips her sandals on for her. Slightly swollen feet barely rising from the ground, her hand flat on his back for stability. Barely shoves his feet into the nearest set of sneakers. Keys jingle as he retrieves them from his gym bag. She's not moving much, not saying much and it unnerves him because he needs to know how she's feeling in order to know how much he should be panicking. "Are you alright?"

"I'm scared."

Her hand is clammy within his as he directs them through the front door into the industrial daylight in the hallway. "Whatever happens Jules, we'll get through it together."

It's reassuring to learn that when it comes to women who may be in labor, the hospital doesn't screw around. He parks in the passenger drop off zone, and before the rent-a-cop can give him lip about not being able to park in that area, Jules holds her stomach and cries out in pain.

They stand side-by-side at the nurse's station on the maternity ward. His arm still around the small of her back. Feels it spasm, grow hard, flex loose and then harden again with each hunch of pain. After about five minutes of typing up information a nurse nods for them to follow. With firm, terrified fingers wringing around his wrist, Jules plants a kiss onto his cheek and tells him to go park the car. Presses that they don't need to be paying for easily avoidable tickets or more importantly have his license revoked because of this.

Immediately he's against the idea. He doesn't want to leave her, she shouldn't be alone. She admitted to him early she was scared. Words she's never uttered to him before. Even after being shot. But he nods and bursts out of the building like he's doing an SRU drill. Parks the car at a meter a block away and feeds it all the change he has in his pocket. It buys him five hours.

When he gets back to the maternity ward, he asks the nurse where they put Jules but she won't let him in the room.

"She's in the middle of an exam."

"Look she's really scared and—"

"Are you the father?"

"Excuse me?"

"Are you the father?"

And it might actually physically pain him to admit it. From a crack in the corner of his mouth the breath escapes. "No."

"Then you don't need to be going in there until the exam is over with. Please take a seat."

An eternity is concentrated into ten minutes as he fidgets in the chair. Composes situations in his head and how they'll react. She's thirty weeks along; babies survive being born at thirty weeks all the time. It'll be in the hospital for a while, but at least it will be healthy. It has to be healthy. It will be healthy. They don't have anything ready at her house either. Can't do the nursery because they don't know the gender. Figured it was better to wait until the baby was born, then decorate a nursery to fit it. All they really need is a car seat and a bassinet.

The nurse nods at him, and points to the blinding white hallway. "Room 4b."

His fingers collide off each other with nerves. His hands shake as he walks down the hall, finds the appropriate room and knocks. It seems ridiculous, the practices instilled.

"Come in." A male voice beckons.

He opens the door slowly to reveal Jules in bed. She's dressed in a hospital gown, and has something strapped to her stomach. Her face is stoic as her eyes stare at a machine to her left. "Is everything okay?"

"She has a little bit of high blood pressure, but everything is fine." The elderly doctor fixes a stethoscope around his neck and gives him a grin. "She was experiencing false labor pains probably induced by the heat and dehydration. I'd like to keep her here for another hour or so just to monitor her and the baby."

"Yeah, sure." Nodding, not really hearing all the words, just understanding the gist of the conversation. Jules is healthy, it was a false alarm, they just want to watch her. It's fine with him. He wants to watch her too. He kisses the top of her head, trying not to be disturbed by all the wires leading away from her body.

As the doctor makes the last few notes on his chart he muses aloud, "You said the pains started about an hour ago?"

"Yeah." She nods and curls her fingers into his. There's a tag on her index finger and he ignores it.

"It was a smart idea to come in. We didn't find anything unusual, but since it's your first pregnancy, you can never be too careful."

"Well, it was his idea." She tugs on the collar of his shirt and sends him a weak smile. With the worry drained from her body, the fatigue has reinstated control.

The doctor chuckles and pushes his thick glasses up on his nose and pauses in the doorway. "It's good to see a father becoming so involved in the pregnancy. When the real labor happens, there should be no problem getting you to the hospital safely if he's around."

In the absence of medical personal, the only sound in the room is the scratching of print coming from the machine attached to Jules' stomach. A scroll of paper with heart fluctuations in mountains and chasms emits from the device like the baby is taking a lie detector test.

"Hey." He nudges her gently with his shoulder. He rests half on the bed, watching the machine come up with constant but changing numbers. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah." But her voice betrays her. Low, uneven. The wire to one of the devices weaves through her finger and she spins it without thought.

"Jules?"

"You don't deserve this." Releasing the twirled wire, she sighs. Her hand rests against her forehead and her eyes are intent on her stomach.

"Deserve what?"

"Deserve being stuck in the middle of this."

"Jules—"

"With people rubbing in the fact that it's not your baby. That's how it's always going to be, Sam."

He reaches for her forearm. The skin is pale, soft and finally cool underneath his fingertips. Is overly cautious and aware of the wires ribboning against her arm and down into the blankets. "I don't care."

"Well I do." She wrenches her arm away, fingers graze her skin as she does, wires braid together. Her whole being shifts away from him, might as well be on a different continent. The dips and dives on the monitor become more pronounced. "You deserve someone better."

"I don't want—"

"No Sam." Finally their eyes meet. He can only distinguish the redness, the bloodshot from lack of sleep. No sleep. But she's not acting right. It's not pregnancy, or hormones. It's actually Jules. She's almost bifurcated. "You say you're fine with it now, but one day, in a week from now, or a year, or ten years you won't be. You won't be and you're a good guy so you won't leave. You'll just stay and suffer."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying I have to end this because you won't."

He almost laughs at her, almost tells her to fuck off right there. He's in the level of sleep deprivation where unrealistic notions gain realistic properties and he doesn't really know if she's intentionally getting at what she's saying. "Are you serious?"

"Sam, I love you but—"

"Yeah." He nods sharply and springs from the bed, unaware if this is a dream or consciousness, either way he's pissed off. "You always seem to love me the most when you're breaking up with me."

"Do you think this is easy?"

"Did you love him?" He pauses at the door, fingers sweating around the handle feeling every single fleck in the metal. He's not trying to be spiteful, or even mean. He's trying to get her to realize he genuinely wants to be with her. "Don't answer that, because that's not what I really want to know."

"Sam."

"Did you ever love him the way you love me?" Doesn't want to know the answer to that question either. Or if she ran her hands through his hair. Or fell asleep with the majority of her body on his every night. Or if she made him those shitty mango smoothies. Or let him play with her ponytail when they relaxed on the couch after a long day. Did he help renovate her house? Does he want to raise a baby with her? "Did you love him the way I love you?"

"It's because I love you that I can't do this to you."

"Jules, you're not doing this—" He gestures a little frantically to the room, to her, the baby, the machines and what he thought would be their imminent future. "To me. You're doing this to me." He opens the door and feels the cold burst of air from the empty hallway. Hears the distant cry of a baby mocking him. "If I leave this time Jules, I'm not coming back."

"I know."

The engineered hallway greets him. Intense, white, and unnatural. The door to her room snaps closed and its final. His running shoes screech across the floor and he doesn't give her a second glance back. In the distance a baby still cries.

* * *

><p><em>Next Chapter - Is the action chapter. For every action there is a Jackson<em>.


	7. Premature Sierra

_A/N: Hey guys. Posted quick because the chapter was done and I hate it, so I thought I'd get it out of the way. I just have two odd scenes and chapter 14 to write now. So so close to being done. This is the action-y chapter, which means it automatically sucks, which means you have to give me a do-over because I'm more inner-motive based than outer action based. What's this mean? This means on a school night I stayed up to 3am editing to you could read it. So no mean things about how shitty my grammar, spelling, logic, etc. is. I still read it over three times, which was torture enough. My only condolence is that the next chapter is slightly better. I'm writing in unknown territory, so there's probably a lot of logical mistakes.  
>As always thanks to everyone who reviewedfavorited/alerted and of course, read. As I keep telling SYurri. My preferred chapters are 9 and 13. So watch out for those ones. I'll try to finish the one scene in Chapter 8 that I need to as soon as possible (though I may jump ahead and write flashbacks for Just-World's Chapter 7 because they're that awesome that they deserve preferential treatment). _

Illegitimate

Chapter 7

Premature Sierra

He goes into work five hours after leaving the hospital. Acts like nothing is wrong but retreats. Withdraws in on himself and becomes absent from the social aspects of the job. Doesn't laugh at Spike's jokes which he never pays attention to anyway. Keeps a stern, pensive face while doing restock. Counts bullets. Fate puts him in a rig with Sarge and his boss disengages the comm. link. Asks what's wrong. He doesn't answer. Not directly. Just voices in a sleepless tone, tires over gravel, he wants a transfer immediately. Ignores the shocked expression. Doesn't respond to further questioning. Why? Why now? Sam, what's up? If there's something wrong you can talk to me about it. It's better not to make hasty decisions. I'll put in the request, but you should think about this. At the end of his shift he completes the appropriate paper work.

The hardest part is returning to an apartment that still smells like her. Vanilla, strawberries, and pizza from last night. Her toothbrush balancing on the edge of the sink. The three empty bottles of water she drank in the recycling bin. Her cell phone and clothing, which he took the liberty of washing, folded and put into a plastic bag. Abandoned on her porch. He didn't even knock. The baby books he bought all thrown down the garbage chute. The contents of the drawer he claimed in her dresser are returned to him in a stale cardboard box.

The fourth floor becomes an omen. Brings forth negative emotions and memories. He treats the button in the elevator like the void thirteenth floor. Goes from three to five. Then he strays away from the elevator completely. Starts taking the stairs in case he meets her by happenstance. Last week he heard Sarge tell Ed she finally took her maternity leave. The SRU preapproves active officers for six months leave while pregnant and a year afterwards. She left at eight months pregnant because she needed the extra money. Part of him thinks she just wanted to torture him.

It's the end of September, three weeks since he's asked for a transfer and hasn't heard a fucking thing. Sarge says transfers takes time. He's desperate. Needs out of Toronto. Possibly Canada. He wouldn't mind going back overseas. He's seven weeks away from calling the General and asking him to tweak the marionette strings within the army. Doesn't like relying on nepotism, but he'll beg for it this time.

The Team's in the briefing room, Sarge's going over the proper ways to file reports when the alarm goes off. Winnie announces the hot call. Shots previously fired. A disgruntled employee returned to his place of business and is holding three people hostage in a conference room.

"What's the location?" Ed's already figuring out schematics in his head. Trying to calculate Sierra shots. Waiting to see if they need to be on neighboring buildings or can have a viable view from the same floor.

"The fourth floor."

"The fourth floor?"

"Of this building."

"I told you it's dangerous to do paperwork all day long. It's a step above being a postal worker." Spike shakes his head, stuck somewhere between completely serious and standup comedian.

Wordy asks his question for him. "Jules is on leave, right?"

"Jules is the one who called it in." Winnie brings up the live audio feed from the hostage situation. Neon green waves fluctuate over the black background. There is only a slightly muffled male voice telling the people to 'stay on the ground'. "She hid her phone so you'd have ears in."

While the others give their reactions to the situation. Certain tactics can't be used because Jules is pregnant, more can't be used because she's so far along. Listening to the audio track he tries not to have any response. Not to care she's in some room with some guy with a gun. The subject could be perfectly normal, could just want some simple justice they can deliver fast and lock him up before she needs one of her bathroom breaks. It's not his responsibility. It never was. Except now it is. His face burns, probably flushes except for the part of it buried under a scar which he no longer feels.

"What the hell is she doing here?" Sarge leans closer to the audio as it falls static because no one is talking. Staring at it like it's visual, video, something other than a weak broadcast.

"Today was her surprise baby shower." Winnie points to a gift adorned with baby ducks playing in the rain on the wrapping paper. It sits neatly on the top shelf of her desk. "I'm just glad I didn't head down earlier."

Sarge and Spike remain at Winnie's station for visuals from the floor cameras while he and Ed work the Sierra positions. Wordy is on less lethal. He's Sierra Two and based around the west quadrant of the building. The conference room on the fourth floor is approximately fifty percent concrete, fifty percent glass. He has the shot immediately because the subject isn't moving. So he spends the majority of the call ducking behind a reinforced pillar, voyeuristic, observing her actions from a distance through the scope of his rifle. Finds the faults in her mannerisms denoting just how frightened she is.

Tries not to get upset, emotional, involved. Slows his breathing as the audio from her phone filters into his empty ears. It's distorted, probably from being tossed behind the thick, gray, teambuilding, exercise inducing, television on a dolly. Her voice is naturally untainted by the situation as she's offered a chair by the subject because apparently they know each other. She's wearing a light gray dress with t-shirt sleeves and a belt distinguishing the area between her breasts and her stomach. It runs tight, meaning this will probably be the last time she wears the dress for multiple reasons. After the tightness in the material around her stomach, it gives. Billows to her knees and sways when she stands to take the chair he offers. The other two hostages, including the venom-tongued blonde woman, remain face down on the floor.

The subject, Bryan, compliments her and actually apologizes for ruining her baby shower. She scoffs that she didn't want one anyways. Her hand runs over her stomach, fabric creating infinitesimal wrinkles, ripples. In his ears, Sarge explains they haven't been able to locate Bryan's ex-boss and reason for his termination, Jerry McKinnon. McKinnon was also Jules' boss during her brief four month stint pushing paperwork. Was constantly trying to force her maternity leave, which stopped when Team One paid him a visit.

"My sister just had a baby you know." The gun is almost nonexistent. The way he speaks to Jules it's like they met in a coffee shop and stopped to catch up. Not like he just shot the receptionist and another coworker point blank while passing them in the hall. Shots fired. Two casualties.

"I remember that." Grinning, her hand remains still on her stomach. She leans back in the chair and can no longer cross her legs. Emotions. He shouldn't feel emotions. Anything. Especially now. But he's missed it, her. So much. "She would have had it a few months back right?"

"Yeah, a boy in May." The gun dangles from his hands resting between jittering knees. Barrel down. "He weighed a little over ten pounds."

"Ouch."

"Well don't give her too much credit. She had as many drugs as the hospital would give her."

"I don't blame her."

"The thing is." There's almost a click in Bryan's voice. A vocal abnormality discerning the change in temperament. There are no obvious physical ticks in the subject, but his fingers grip the trigger on his sniper rifle anyway. Ready the moment something goes awry. "The father isn't doing anything to help her with Erik."

"I'm sorry."

The gun raises an inch or two, shakes in Bryan's lap as he gives details about the life his little sister is now trapped in. Simultaneously, Ed declares the weapon raising. Simultaneously Wordy declares they've traced McKinnon to a sixth floor board meeting with a few other bosses who were in a covert conference room when the building was evacuated. Wordy declares it clear when he enters.

"What about your baby?" Bryan paws at his eyes with the heel of his unmanned hand. When Spike talked to the just post-teenage sister, she promised Bryan didn't have mental problems. Promised he was a good brother just trying to take care of her and her son because no one else would.

"What about my baby?" The tiniest of flutters enters her voice in case the question is a threat she's misinterpreted.

"What about its father?"

"He, um—" she pauses swallows away the tears he knows are there and wishes weren't. "He died saving someone else's life."

"Oh. I'm very sorry."

She shakes her head and thumbs away the only tear brave enough to escape. "Not your fault."

"But this is." He gestures, limp gunned, to the room. To the blue and pink balloons tied in bundles with trailing ribbons. To the presents with tissue paper exploding out of them. To the white cake, the paper plates, the plastic utensils, the red party cups, the finger foods. "Those people out there are."

"It's not too late Bryan. You still have a chance to watch your nephew grow up."

He nods watching her, allowing her to place a comforting hand on his arm. It's amazing really. Negotiating is like riding a bike, do it once, know it for life. Except she would have to jump through fire laden hoops and run insane obstacle courses before being reinstated back to Team One. It's how things worked after she was shot. Day after day of strenuous activities, not only physical, but psychological. She would come home on the brink of tears and just slam the door to the bathroom and have the world's longest bath. Until one day he broke the lock, and got out of her what happened to her mom.

While Bryan is in the process of handing his gun to Jules, dominoes fall. Spike exclaims Mckinnon is on his way back to the fourth floor despite the whole building being evacuated. The elevator doors open to reveal the boss who took away Bryan's ability to care for his sister and nephew. Just shy of lying the gun in Jules hand he launches forward, aims the gun at the boss and fires.

The bullet hits in the middle of Mckinnon's forehead. Bryan's movement also causes both him and Ed to lose their shots as the subject who is now hostile is hidden behind the concrete walls. Jules talks to him calmly, telling him to give her the gun. The other two women in the room shout in disbelief. Cry in fear. In anger. In confusion. In misunderstanding. The whole time Jules is trying to get him back under control but it fails.

It fails miserably.

"No joy."

"No joy."

Fear. Just a blind fear as he runs up a random set of half stairs which plague the building. Still finds no joy. Balloons and streamers obscure the windows. He hates the women on this floor so much.

"I know how this works now." Bryan's voice is more authoritative. There's no emotion, more grunts and throaty sounds. "I need a hostage."

"Bryan, it's still not too—"

"It is too late."

"Where the hell are my Sierra shots?" Sarge yells into the comm. link.

"The rooms obscured Boss." Ed huffs, probably copying his movements, trying to find some visual into the room.

"McKinnon is dead." Wordy informs. He can vaguely see his teammate at the end of the hallway over the crumpled body of the former ex-boss. His presence only upsets Bryan more.

Then it shimmers, one of the balloons, slowly rotating downwards in the commotion of the room. Gives him a view maybe if—he falls flat on his stomach and sets up his rifle. Bryan's head is just in view. The movement of his arm, the glimmer of the gun slightly distracting as he thrashes around, hand clamped down hard on Jules' bicep.

He licks his lips, ignoring the equal amounts of rage in him. She's pregnant. She's so pregnant. Different levels of anger. Jules being manhandle is pretty up there. Jules being manhandled while pregnant, he's surprised he hasn't shot yet.

"I have the shot."

"I have to get out of here."

"Bryan there are other—"

Then it happens. Doesn't know why, maybe a scare tactic. Probably just to silence her need to change his mind. The subject presses his gun directly into the side her stomach. Barrel creating depressions on the surface of tight fabric. It shuts her right up, stills her, the color leaves her face. Dominates her.

He furrows his brows. Concentrates his vision. Inhales and pulls the trigger. Two seconds after he releases the trigger Sarge calls Scorpio. He knows he's in deep shit. But he honestly doesn't care. He'd do it again, in a single heartbeat. Would always rest his career on her safety. Did before.

For some form of fucked up penance, Sarge sends him to the hospital as his proxy to check on her. His boss is preoccupied with the SIU, fighting for him. There's definitely going to be a punishment.

At a normal gait he steps lightly by the mouth of the room so she doesn't pick him out of the regular hallway travelers. She's facing away from the door. The light gray dress marred with wrinkles, evidence of her quickly redressing after abandoning her clothes for a hospital gown. The tie settling above her stomach twisted and off center. When she turns at her hips, a splatter of dried blood highlights the short sleeve on her right arm and side of her breast.

"Sam?"

He's half hidden by the supported door frame. Told her he wouldn't run after her again. Enforced the statement with a stable voice drained of solid decision generating methods from lack of sleep. Warned should she direct him away for a second time, he wouldn't return like a lost dog. But then she was there before his eyes. Stuck with Bryan, a guy who without a shudder murdered three people. Stuck frozen with a gun barrel against her baby. Circumstances brought up in the SIU interview. Previous relationships. Emotions he should not have. He gets it. He's not supposed to be with her. Not supposed to be happy. But for the love of God, can't something just protect her so he doesn't have to? Care for her so he doesn't have to? Love her so he doesn't have to? Do all this and not get shot in a restaurant downtown and buried in a family plot in The Hat. Do all this and not give a fuck about the repercussions of a late Scorpio.

"It was you? Wasn't it?"

She didn't get to see the glamorous aftermath of the hot call. Probably thought went like clockwork. It didn't. Gears and springs were everywhere. The cuckoo flew the coop. SIU screamed drills at him. Army continually leeching. Breathing out after the shot he stabilized his vision. Felt unwanted while watching Sarge comfort her. She wasn't crying. Never cried. This was normal for them. That's what's fucked up. SIU cornered him before he could approach her, informed him how deep of shit he was in for firing early.

"What was me?"

The gurney squeaks under her weight when she perches on the edge of it. Fingers hooking over the mattress, knuckles pulsing and white like washed pebbles; she's still a little shocked. Sarge probably already made her talk to someone. Maybe he's the someone. "I kept calm because I knew you guys were out there. I knew you guys wouldn't let anything happen to me. Then he started talking faster and the gun was against my stomach. I just kept thinking it was okay because you wouldn't let anything happen to me. To us."

He doesn't answer because she honestly doesn't deserve an answer. He can't count on his fingers and toes the things he's sacrificed for her, but she's still not willing to allow him to be with her. So he's stuck in purgatory. He can't have what he wants; he can't go back to living his life without her in it. His shoe scuffs against the floor with his intent to leave.

"The last three weeks have been hell." She admits to her knocking knees. The hem of her dress shrinking around pale thighs in the darkened room.

"Because it's been easy for me." He runs a hand over his forehead and didn't realize he was sweating, well knew it, just not sweating this much. Without his knowledge he's creeping around the door frame, reclines against it with a little less outward malice.

"I never loved him Sam." The revelation almost sends him physically stumbling. Expecting some snide remark tainted with sarcasm, instead actually gets her to open up. Jules has always been the superior one in their relationship because she was never in jeopardy of constantly losing him. Now she's becoming more humanized, sharing emotions cryptic to him because before she refused to. "We only slept together once, on Valentine's Day sort of out of obligation. It was—" She pauses and laughs with a mixture of bitterness and embarrassment. Hides her slightly blushing face in the palm of her hand. "It was really awkward. After that we didn't see each other until the day he died. We were going to mutually break up I think."

"You didn't know?"

She grins, but it's empty, not truthful. Purses her lips, than plumps them while rubbing her stomach. "I found out in Medicine Hat, the day before the funeral. I bought a home pregnancy test in a pharmacy and ran into my dad. He only had the nicest things to say as you can imagine."

"If he was still alive, would you have tried to make it work with him?" He doesn't want to know the answer. Really doesn't want to know the answer because he doesn't want to give that reality any more validity than he has to. Any more respect than he has to. But he needs her to hear these answers to gain closure.

"I couldn't because I didn't—I don't love him. I don't love him because he's not you, Sam." He steps forward until he's almost standing beside her, but reserves himself. Still cautious, well aware of the hurt she can so easily inflict with what she thinks are good intentions. "I do love you, you know. It's not just something I say when I want you to leave. And I think about everything I've done, and you deserve so much better."

He sits on the bed next to her, notices her body doesn't edge towards his with the addition of his weight. Notices she won't look at him. Gently, he nudges her knee with his. "Jules, when are you going to realize that you're all I'll ever want? You and this baby, there is no 'better than this' for me."

"I've been around guys all my life and none of them talk to me the way you do."

"Sounds like you've been around the wrong guys then."

"But I blew my chance didn't I?"

"I shot him. Before Sarge called Scorpio, I shot him. What does that say?" He sighs heavily through his nostrils. When they broke up two years ago, if she came to his apartment the next day he wouldn't have refused her, no matter how unamicable the situation. She loves him and wants him, it's enough. Her wanting a family with him sets off fireworks in his body.

One of his arms encircles her shoulders, gathers her against his chest as much as he can. Her stomach has grown in his absence. She's finally popped. His hand rubs down the curve and is greeted by a mediocre thump directly in the center of his palm. He kisses her forehead, feels her cool skin on the side of his neck and closes his eyes. "I'm still here. I'll always be here."

The ride back to headquarters is silent, but not awkward. They're both tired, but both relieved. They're both nervous about the third reboot of their relationship. The city lights flash, reflected in mirrors, on her skin, and in her hair. She's still as gorgeous as ever and he wonders if there's a single thing in the world she could do to make him hate her.

She falls asleep momentarily in the passenger's seat. Eyes flickering under just slightly closed lids. Before their brief displacement she was having bad nightmares. He only assumes the trauma of being a hostage at gunpoint will worsen them. Would think something's wrong with her if it didn't. Knows she needs to talk to a therapist about today. If he doesn't persuade her too, Sarge will. Knows it's exactly the kind of information that's going to be used against her in court.

Things are still. Surreal. The shock of today holding strong, building up barriers in his brain. But she's fine, healthy, glowing, and waddling at a slow pace beside him which he adopts. His fingers braiding with hers. Pulse evening to hers.

At her Jeep, she opens the door and pauses, staring down at the black asphalt hidden by the starless sky. "Do you want to come over? You don't have to—"

His lips cover hers lightly, soothingly. He feels her smile against him and it's contagious. "I'll be there a little later. I have a few things to go over with Sarge."

Shuts the door once she's in the car. She has to adjust the seat; rolling her eyes she tells him it's the third time. He kisses her again through the window and tells her to drive careful. Waves to her as she squeals out of the parking lot just to spite him. Slightly upsets him but actually works to relax him. It's exactly what he expected her to do.

He finds Sarge reclining in the briefing room. All papers except one reverted back into a manila file folder for safe keeping. "There you are. I called you twice; SIU negotiations have been done for almost half an hour."

"Sorry, I was just—"

"How is she?" Though he interrupts, Sarge's voice is calm. His hands clasp together against the tabletop.

"She's a little in shock still, but fine. The baby's fine too."

"Good news." Sarge stands from the chair, rubbing the back of his hand across his hatless forehead. Stretching out his arms, teeth mashing. "SIU is stressing a two week suspension."

"Two weeks?" He wants to scoff. If he had any more energy he would scoff but in a messed up way it makes complete sense. A week for a second. Glad he didn't just fire the moment that guy's hand clamped around her arm. It still causes his hands to clasp in an unseen anger, still makes his skin tingle.

"I'm sorry Sam." The formal disciplinary report states he shot two seconds early to save his girlfriend and her unborn baby's life. Well not exactly in those words. He trusts Sarge though, accepts the pen from him without presenting his normally arrogant attitude and signs on the coarse black line. "Seems like a vacation might be what you need. Maybe take the time and visit your family?"

Caps the pen and releases what he wants to be a dry laugh, it turns out to be a tired exhalation. "I don't think they'd want me under these circumstances."

"I wasn't talking about your parents, Sam."

Sarge knows. Probably saw them in the parking lot. Probably knew from his premature Sierra shot. From his insistence of a transfer. From his teenage mood swings. From his frequent excuses to go to the fourth floor. From his bad acting when they would meet up for Team dinners and he would glance at her and say 'haven't seen you in a while'. Then he realizes he's breaking a rule by dating her. His palms immediately sweat. He can't lose her again. Not like this. Again. "Sarge I—"

"Relax Sam," his boss almost laughs. An unusual expression, almost indifference with a little bit superiority. "Jules isn't actively on Team One anymore. You're not breaking any official rules."

Tired mind reads between the lines quickly. "What about unofficial ones?"

Sarge sighs, twitches his lips and rubs at the back of his head. "Unofficially? I didn't see it before, but I do now." Adds a slight smile to break the tension. "But she's been through a lot and if you add to that, you'll have the Team to deal with."

And nothing more is said on the matter. Sarge goes through disciplinary reprimand protocol. Gets him to sign a few more pages and explains starting Monday he'll have two weeks suspension. Part of him thinks this was orchestrated by their boss. Not him shooting the rifle early, but the punishment. He could have been fired, he could have been transferred, but instead he got two weeks off to spend with his pregnant girlfriend who needs help.

Then he remembers his constant pestering the last three weeks about getting the hell out of the SRU. "About my transfer?"

Without glancing up from the newly signed papers Sarge answers, "I never filed your request."

* * *

><p><em>Next Chapter - I still have a bit to finish up. But shit, yes you guessed it, goes down. More family based, and something BIG happens. It's totally another break up. Seriously. <em>


	8. Fairytale Towns and Knighthood

_A/N: Hey guys, rather a long chapter because too much shit goes down as I've aforementioned. And no, no one breaks up. That stuff only happens in Just-World so settle. I was just being mean. Now that I've thoroughly spoiled the chapter for you, let me remind you for the second time that my working knowledge of the law comes mainly from American commercials and 90s situational comedies. So yeah, nothing in that courtroom is plausible. I bet they don't even serve soup.  
>The story is almost at completion with the end of Chapter 13 and all of Chapter 14 needing to be done and that's it. What does this mean for you? That the next four chapters are already done and just need read throughs and spit shines. So yay.<br>On a side note I just wanted to mention that after a year of struggling, I finally made it into my University's grad program, so I actually get to write a book while under close observation (well a publishable manuscript). So yay.  
>Lastly, thanks to everyone who reviewedfavorited/alerted/ and of course, read.  
>Fun Fact: When I couldn't think of a chapter title, SYuuri suggested 'How I Met Steve's Mother'. Amazing. <em>

Illegitimate

Chapter 8

Fairytale Towns and Knighthood

The entirety of his two week suspension is spent with Jules. He's amazed to learn in his short absence her stomach has grown enough to hit things. All types of things, doors, cups off the coffee table, piles of folded clothing, shampoo bottles in the shower, pictures off the wall while descending the stairs, the glove compartment in his SUV unless she adjusts her seat to the farthest setting, and him. It's like living with a bumper car because she doesn't realize how big she's gotten, and he'll be damned if he's going to openly point it out.

During his absence he expected her to fall into the preset nesting mode most expectant women do. Maybe even go a little crazy with it since she was facing this milestone alone. But when he returns to her house nothing has changed. The guest rooms remain decorated down to the wall hangings, there's not even a preset nursery pattern or color choice for either gender in mind. She doesn't have anything for the baby, or for herself after the baby is born. She doesn't even have a birthing plan. So the first thing he does is surprise her by signing them up for a course downtown.

On Wednesday afternoons they attend a birthing class together. It's the weirdest in class experience since some of his training at the SRU. His worry addled brain keeps mixing the two courses. Sitting behind Jules as she lies on the ground and breathes the patterned breaths along with her, he's thinking of a negotiation plan for the baby. You sound upset. We all just want to go home. What do I have to do so we can all make it out of here safely?

People return to the class with their new babies, some of whom are huge for newborns. Babies that could already make the prerequisite height and weight requirements for the SRU. He and Jules exchange wide-eyed glances, and decline wanting to hold the one ton babies when the new parents offer. Other than the freakishly large offspring of previous class members, there really is no reason for concern. Both of them are good at securing diapers on the fake infants, understand not to force a baby's limbs in opposite directions, and when Jules doesn't feel stupid doing it, they get the breathing outlines down to a perfect note.

The final day of his two week suspension brings about the trial date to determine custody of Baby Callaghan. It is Baby Callaghan. There is no way in hell he's going to stand in court, and watch Jules have to hand over her baby while knowing the turmoil she's been put through the last eight, almost nine, months. The Morgan name died with Steve. The time this baby stops being a Callaghan is the day it becomes a Braddock.

She has one of the first court dates of the day, so the alarm wakes them a little after the sun. The late October sky is a dark gray with the menacing intention of rain. He showers and dresses in a respectable, but not overly fancy suit. When he gets out of the bathroom, she's sitting on the edge of the bed, molding the sheets between her fingers.

"Hey, are you okay?"

"Yeah." She nods, tongue wetting her lower lip before standing. Her legs shake, knees knocking under her own weight.

He helps her stand, her skin feeling slightly hot to the touch. "Are you sure?"

"I don't feel so good. I'm sure it'll pass."

"We can call them and get them to reschedule—"

"And how does that make me look?"

"Jules, I'm sure they'll understand if you don't feel well."

"We're going."

So they do. She showers and then spends ten minutes complaining about the dress she picked out last week. She wanted to wear a pantsuit. Everyone in the maternity store knew she was too big for a suit. He knew she was too big for a suit. None of them wanted to pull the pin and run. It's a beautiful dress though. Long sleeved; the top of it is white with black clasps in the middle. There's a black band above her stomach which flows down into the skirt. It does her more justice than any suit ever could.

The courtroom is small, almost intimate. On one side are Jules and the lawyer who Ed so willingly volunteered. He doesn't remember the guy's name. He sits behind them in the valley of empty seats. The toes of his shoes kicking the wooden fence separating himself and Jules. The lawyer suggested they not sit together because it might not be good for her reputation.

The other side of the room sits Steve's family. His mom who is at least eighty, but walks independently. Her snow white hair is wrapped tightly around her head, reminiscent of a crown. Jules says her name is Edith Morgan and she was a school teacher until retirement. She also taught the neighborhood's Sunday school. He can easily picture her hitting the kids on the knuckles with a meter stick.

Steve's sister is a woman in her early fifties. Or maybe mid-forties but not aging well. She's tall, towering over her mother like a bodyguard. Her light brown hair has the lingering memory of being darker and fuller before the gray started spreading through. Jules informs him her name is Harriet and she's childless. He thinks a perfectly valid point for Steve's family not receiving custody is their naming history.

They have a gray-haired attorney and sit closer to the young court stenographer who looks in fear at the older women. Like they might steal away her youth. The judge, a tall, wide man named Marsters arrives and they stand, though it's more difficult for Jules and Steve's mom.

The whole basis of the case is to criticize Jules. He figures it out rather quickly and wants to shoot himself for not figuring it out sooner. The judge brings up most of the articles on the list of actions the Morgan family considers grounds for labeling her an unfit mother and she defends herself. Most of their evidence is weak at best and when they do have a liable case, she has a viable answer.

"It says here you were in a truck which exploded back in May?" The judge's voice exposes his skepticism. But the man has a bad habit of glancing over the lens in his thin glasses at the person he's addressing like he's personally debasing them.

"I wasn't in the truck when it blew up." She sounds wavy, from nausea or exhaustion. Maybe she's just nervous. "I can't be held responsible for something that didn't actually happen to me."

"Fair enough." The Judge apparently crosses it off the list and continues to the next item. "You were in a hostage situation, just a few weeks ago? Didn't you take maternity leave?"

He wants to know how Steve's family got all these details. Someone from the fourth floor had to be leaking information to them. It had to be one of the woman, or all of them. They're all loudmouthed and talk about everyone present or not. God, he hates the fourth floor.

"I went to the SRU for my baby shower; I didn't know there was going to be a hostage situation. It's no different than going into a bank and a few seconds later someone holding it up. I left active SRU duty seventeen weeks into my pregnancy. I went on maternity leave a week before the hostage situation. I needed the money."

"Are you going to be returning to active duty once the baby is born?"

It's a question he's been wondering too, but didn't want to ask. Didn't want to upset her, didn't want to make her purposely think about abandoning the baby. Didn't want her to get pissed off at him for assuming she wouldn't return to active duty. He did that once before and it didn't turn out so well for him.

"No. I couldn't jeopardize my baby's future by having a life threatening job."

"Are you a single mother?"

He wants her to answer yes. The lawyer wants her to answer yes. They both know the manufactured pity at her situation might be grounds for the judge to be more lenient. It also hides their relationship which most people don't seem to approve of. Telling the Team was a struggle. Wordy asks him about her, but Ed and Spike are still a little uncomfortable.

She answers no. "I have a boyfriend, but he also works a dangerous job. I couldn't put both of us in that situation and have no one there for the baby."

"Well I don't want to plague you about questions on your personal life." Adjusting the thin glasses on his face, the judge fixes the evidence in order and stands from his seat. "I'd like to review the information I have, so I'm calling a brief recess."

During the break, he sits adjacent to her on the bench, food crowded on a mint cafeteria tray beside them. Her soup overflowed and weaves its way between the grooves etched in the plastic on the bottom of the tray. She's leaning back against the wall, one hand on her stomach, the other trying to reach the small of her back.

His arm replaces hers, skewed and distorted behind her back. "Jules, it'll be fine."

Shifting, she rolls her back to no avail. Brown eyes heavy and lowered. Head shaking rapidly in disagreement. "I'm tired, Sam. I'm tired and I'm terrified I'm going to screw up. I'm going to lose the baby to them because I'm tired. I just—I can't."

"Hey, hey." His arm levitates to drape around her shoulders. Her head falls lethargically to the crook of his neck, eyes wrenching closed against his skin. "I'm promising you it's going to be fine."

Head rolls back and forth in disagreement. "You can't promise that."

"Yes I can."

They sit in a quiet embrace for a few seconds. One of his hands caressing her stomach, the baby so many people are willing to fight over. So many people but the real father. Wonders if Steve was alive where he would be in all this. How everyone would factor in.

"I'm doing a good job right?" Retracting a little from the embrace, he's surprised to find the glowing streak of a freshly fallen tear on her cheek. Didn't pick up on the sorrow in her voice because of the overpowering fatigue. "Just tell me I'm doing a good job."

"How can you even ask me that Jules?" The pad of his thumb brushes away the tear trek. Blends the water in with the contours of her face. "You're so strong. So strong. Probably the strongest person I know. Throughout this whole thing, you've never complained. Never blamed Steve, even now. You're so strong and I'm so proud of you."

She smiles as another tear escapes. He clears that one away too, the softness of her cheek accentuated by the fresh fluidity. "No one talks to me like you do, Sam," she barely whispers while he kisses her cheek. Vaguely tastes salt.

"I don't need the competition." He sets the tray in his lap, ignoring the undulations through the soup. Before she can respond to his joke, probably taking it serious, he states, "You need to eat something."

"Sweetie, I really don't feel good." And it breaks his heart. Maybe because her voice cracks and he can hear just how ill and how tired she really is. Like the sun breaking through a cloudy sky. Or maybe because it's the first time she openly calls him a pet name and something inside of him flourishes. Maybe pride.

"I know. I know you don't, but think about the poor baby." Touches her stomach again and something about it doesn't seem right, it's not as tight, almost hollow. If something was wrong she would have mentioned it, and he doesn't want to provoke more anxiety in her, so he ignores it. "It's just sitting in there, running out of room. Wondering when it's going to get to eat."

She sighs, a hand on his shoulder and something is so blissfully domestic about the situation it makes him forget where they are. "How much do I have to force down to make you happy?"

"Three spoonfuls of soup and just nurse the ginger ale."

She accepts the leaky cardboard soup cup with an expression of general distaste. "You drive a hard bargain, Braddock."

"Well I am a negotiator."

When they reenter the courtroom a few minutes later, Steve's family still won't glance Jules' way. He helps her back to her seat, her body long fallen into the rhythmic hip ticks of the late pregnancy waddle. Sometimes he wonders how she's not completely thrown over by her own momentum. He runs a hand over her hair, and places a kiss on t he back of her head just to get a rouse from Steve's mom and sister who are watching in their peripherals with distaste. In an almost silent voice he reminds, "I'll be right behind you."

Judge Marsters returns, large body filling up his chair quickly. "I believe I've made my decision, however I do have a few more questions to ask if that's okay with both parties."

Jules nods, her body slumping back in the chair. Steve's mom talks it over with her attorney and then nods. "Ms. Callaghan, early I stated I didn't want to know about your personal life because I didn't think it pertained to this case. However after further thought I would like to know a few details as I believe it will affect the environment the child is raised in."

Without knowing it, his fingernails dig into the over varnished, almost tacky wooden bar separating them. His mind is flipping through her history, thinking of anything the judge might be able to use to proclaim her an unfit mother before the baby is even born. Then his heart stops. Her mom. What about her mom.

"It was aforementioned that you're currently seeing someone?" The judge glances over his thin, circled glasses towards her.

"Yes." Her voice is blank, much like what he can see of her expression. She's gone into defense mode. It might not be a good thing, showing no emotions when the fate of her baby is being decided.

"Is this the fellow in question?"

And the judge is pointing directly at him. Suddenly he's part of this and he doesn't care. Doesn't care because the baby is eventually going to be born and then he would suddenly be a part of this anyway. He rises from the bench behind her. "Yes, Your Honor."

"What's your name?"

"Sam Braddock."

"How long have you two been dating?"

"Three months, but we dated before. We broke up do to work constraints." Can't look at Jules, can't give the impression that his answers might be premeditated or tampered with. They have to be truthful, natural. Straight from his brain to his mouth for her. For them.

"So you work at the SRU as well?"

"Yes, Your Honor."

"From the police force?"

"No, Your Honor. The army."

"Oh. Ever see action?"

"Two tours in Afghanistan."

"Mmm." The judge scribbles something on the piece of paper before him, and then glances over low set glasses almost tumbling off his nose. Visually picking him apart. "I'd like to ask you two very personal questions. You may refuse to answer them, but you might get the cold shoulder later on tonight." At the end of his sentence he points to Jules, who hasn't even twitched in the chair.

"I'm fine with the questions, Your Honor."

"Smart man," the judge laughs, but it stops abruptly. He removes his glasses, folds them and sets them on his podium. "Do you love her?"

"Since the moment I first saw her." Somehow this is what he expected meeting Jules' father would be like. Going through layer after layer of pent up, retired cop, investigatory methods from the 1960s aimed his intentions. Things, they got a little skewed, but he wouldn't change them.

"Why? This is under no circumstance your child. Why would you still want to be with her, with a child, whom is not your own?"

"Because I love her. I'll always love her, and this baby is half of her." He grins while he speaks, eyes a little downcast because what he's saying is a little bit of a personal revelation and he would have rather said it to Jules while bonding over their new baby, than in a courtroom with her and six other strangers. "Jules is very smart, Your Honor; she can teach the baby a lot of things. But for the few things she can't, maybe I could."

"Good. You may sit down now, Mr. Braddock." The judge nods slowly. His face completely stoic. "I reward Julianna Callaghan full custody of her child."

"Excuse me?" Steve's prehistoric mother almost jumps out of her chair in protest. "There must be something we can do?" She's more so yelling at her lawyer than the judge. "Can't we countersue for shared custody?"

"No Mrs. Morgan, and if I was Ms. Callaghan I would countersue you for defamation of character and just generally wasting everyone's time." The judge doesn't hide the scorn in his voice as he disappears from the stand.

He kisses Jules. Grabs her cheeks and really kisses her. They both laugh; high on the fact they're going to be parents. Real parents unless anymore unseen Morgan family members return from The Hat to try to stake a claim in a baby they have no right to. They both thank Ed's lawyer friend, whose name he still doesn't know.

Bowing his head, he kisses her stomach through her dress. "Congratulations Baby Callaghan," he announces to the baby, who isn't kicking or as excited as they both are. Her stomach seems at an odd angle as he nuzzles it well in front of Steve's family, maybe just to rub it in. "We're going to raise the hell out of you."

"Ahem."

Backing off he finds Steve's mom standing before them. Her wired eyebrows lowering in disgust, hooked nose rising in scorn as she watches their pre-familial interactions. Her scrawny fingers clamp around her clutch.

"I just wanted to let you know that the offer still stands." Jules hand roots on the sturdy wooden table for support, and he wonders how exactly she isn't feeling good. Pieces together information from various baby books, about what happens when the baby 'drops' within her. How her waddle is more pronounced. For a split second contemplates if her sickness is actually the very early stages of labor, but he brushes it off because she still has a little more than a month before the baby is actually due.

With one hand on her bulbous stomach, she precariously removes the other from off the table and offers it to Steve's mom. "I want this baby to know you. To know Harriet. To know Steve is its father. I want it to have a family."

He doesn't say a word when the ancient lady casts her gray eyes on him. Cragged and angled from behind years of accumulating wrinkles and bitterness. He doesn't disagree with Jules. He hasn't really earned the right to. Maybe to debate a valid point, but not flat out disagree on how she raises the baby. He doesn't disagree. He knows her reasons behind wanting to extend the family. Because her family won't be a part of the baby's life.

Mr. Callaghan obviously knows about her baby, it's what he's gathered from the brief conversations they've had concerning her father. He saw her with the test, so the idea of a potential grandchild must be ingrained in his mind. But Jules also enlightened of the broods of grandchildren her father already has from her brothers. Most of them didn't make it out of their teens before accidentally having a kid or two. Her father doesn't respond well to kids. Sure they call him 'grandpa' but he only answers with a gruff grunt while wasting away in his recliner. Her baby will cause no difference in her family's lives and her family's absence in her baby's life will leave no lasting effect.

"I just came to tell you, that Steven." Edith pauses to cross herself, boney fingers catching a tremor. "Is reeling in his grave. You haven't changed a bit since you left. Still selfish and conducting yourself in lurid ways. It's no wonder your father wants nothing to do with you."

"We have to go now." His fingers entwine with Jules' and he gives a brief squeeze as he tugs her along. Her expression is shock, lips parted but no words exiting.

Walking as fast as she allows them, they arrive at his SUV. He helps her inside, buckles the belt below her bump and gently shuts the door. They're a block and a half away from the courthouse in stuck midday traffic when she finally finds her voice.

"I wasn't like that."

"I know."

"I mean, I went through kind of a rebellious phase but it was nothing out of the ordinary."

"Jules." He dry laughs at her nervousness. Ever since their playing field evened from a mountain and a brook to just a shared valley between them, she becomes antsy over nothing. Thinks he's going to pick on physical flaws or past mistakes as a reason to leave her. "I know who you really are."

She gravely nods. Lips pursing as she relaxes back in the chair. Her hand rubs at her stomach absently as they wait in traffic.

"So is Medicine Hat one of those towns from fairytales that has no kids?"

"What?" She turns away from watching various men in orange colored jackets with yellow X's do construction on the side of the road.

"It just seems like everyone who lives in that city is really old. I think that's why they wanted the baby."

Her eyes roll, but she doesn't hide the grin blossoming over her lips. With her head turned back towards the window she voices, "You're an idiot."

Whisking her hand up, he holds it loosely, thumb strumming over her fingers. "And lucky you, you're stuck with me."

She tugs on his hand once, and when he turns, she's watching him. "You know how you said you were proud of me? Well I'm—I'm really proud of you too, Sam. What you said—"

"It was all true."

"I know."

They eat dinner at home two hours later. He offers to take her out to celebrate the victory, but in a lethargic tone she reminds she still doesn't feel good. So he suggests she go have a shower to stave off the depressing weather. It's the last week of October, hasn't snowed yet, but there's been plenty of freezing rain. His intentions are to pick up food for them while she's showering, but he can't bring himself to leave. A nagging voice keeps telling him to wait until he hears her get out of the shower. As soon as the water turns off and the door closes he bolts out of the house.

In the last two weeks, Jules hasn't finished a full meal. When anyone stupid enough to question why, like Spike at their last Team dinner together, she enlightens if they had a football propelled constantly into their ribs, they wouldn't eat much either. Instead she became a snacker. Every two hours she would stop what she was doing, go to the washroom, and then grab something. Usually a vegetable.

Tonight she eats the whole salad, which is jumbo sized because he figured there would be more for her to snack on later. Reclining on the couch next to him she sighs, hands on her stomach and pulling random skewed faces. He's stopped asking what they mean, because unless she slaps him or yells at him, it's not important and his pestering bothers her.

But her stomach is lower, has a ridiculous slope which wasn't present last night. His hand rests beside hers on calm skin, but his investigates the region, take abstract measurements in his mind.

"What are you doing Sam?"

"I think you dropped."

"Dropped what?" Craning her neck forward she checks the area carpet to see what he's talking about.

"No, I think the baby dropped." His hand stops on where her stomach used to slope up from her hips. Instead it almost slopes down now. "I think you're going to have it soon."

"Yeah." She rolls her eyes and settles back against his shoulder. "I think I'll know."

"Well, maybe we should get prepared." Can't help but feel nervous about the change in the slope. Wishes she did one of those stomach casts so he'd have something to compare it to and then get her to panic just a bit with him. "You know, just in case."

"Prepared how?" She yawns.

"Well we have nothing for the baby because we don't want to get anything until we know what it is."

"There's nothing wrong with that."

"Except we don't have a car seat. Or any clothes, even neutral colored ones. Or diapers which either gendered baby is going to need. Or a name. A name might be a good place to start."

"Yeah." Her back rests fully against his side as she claims the majority of the couch. "I guess names would be a good place to start."

"I thought you were supposed to go through a nesting phase or something."

"Do you want to do names now or not?"

His hand stills beside hers on her stomach. "You want me to help?"

"Yeah. I mean, we're doing this together. Aren't we?"

"Yeah." He nods and everything in his body suddenly calms. The need to get everything done. The reason he already emptied the guest room of her choice and primed the walls. It fades until there are just three simple heartbeats. His cheek rests against the top of her head and he closes his eyes for a moment. "Of course."

She shifts against him, pulls his other arm around her so both rest on her stomach. "What do you think it'll be? Everyone at the SRU thinks it's going to be a boy."

"Hey, that's not true." He laughs into her hair and finds both of her hands, clasps them together somewhere over her sunken navel. "Wordy thinks it's going to be a girl."

"Yeah, well Wordy is Captain of Team Girl."

"And Sarge really never said. He only smiles slyly and shakes his head. I think he just wants to be on whatever side wins."

Grinning against his voice in her ear, she crosses her slightly swelling feet at the ankles. "Spike told me last week at the restaurant he thinks it's a watermelon."

"He probably just has a vitamin C deficiency."

"See, so there you go."

"That's one boy, one girl, one no vote, and one watermelon, Jules."

"Winnie, Shelly and Sophie all think it's a boy. So did almost everyone on the fourth floor." She sighs loudly and they both stare at her stomach, the enigma inside of it for a few quiet seconds.

He rubs her arms through the gray sweater she's wearing. Knows what she's really getting at, knows what she's preparing him for and he just wonders if there is any real merit behind the notion. "You think it's a boy don't you?"

"Yeah." Her lips roll against each other, disappear with the influence of her sentence. "Yeah I do."

"I do too." It's almost painful to admit. He prays it's a girl. At night when he can't sleep, whether it's out of concern, future planning, even when they were broken up he still wished she would have a girl. Somehow a girl, at least in his mind, would have less of a chance of looking like Steve. Would look and act more like Jules and be endearing to him from the moment of her first breath. A boy would look like Steve, cause questions and controversy among family and friends. Grow to resent him for his relationship with Jules, maybe even for Steve's death.

"I have a name for a boy."

"It's not Steve, is it?" He doesn't think he can handle calling Steve's son Steve, Stevie, Stephen or any other variant of the name. There has to be some kind of balance in the world which gives him a mulligan on this one. It's already going to haunt him like a phantom moniker for the rest of his life, can't that be enough?

"No, not Steve. Maybe as a middle name." She senses his inner panic, maybe only mild on the outside. Pats his knee gently as a gesture to relax. "I'd want to name him after my grandpa. He was the one who raised me after my mom died. Taught me everything I know about tools, cooking, almost everything. He helped me pay for school once I decided I wanted to be a cop."

"I never knew that."

"Yeah, I lived with him until I was done high school. He saved me a lot of wrath from my dad and brothers." Either he tightens his arms around her, or she encloses them more. He's not sure which; maybe it's a combination of both. "His name was George."

"Really?"

"Yeah, why?"

"My middle name is George."

"Samuel George Braddock." Then she laughs a little. By the tone of her voice she's growing tried, becoming nonsensical. "You really need to be knighted."

"Yeah." He taps her thigh lightly a few times, not to force her to sit up, but to let her know of his intentions too. He sits slowly so he doesn't upset any of the muscles in her back which are woven together like a weak wicker basket. "I think we should get to bed."

A few minutes after the lights extinguish in the bedroom, Jules is asleep. Pillows surrounding her body like sentries, two tucked between her thighs, a full length body pillow bordering on the outside of the bed. He can't sleep. Even though he's accepted into what will soon be his family, he can't overcome the fear of potentially having a boy. A son. Steve's son. Then ideas mingle, regardless of the baby's gender, it won't look a thing like him. He listens to the thunder rolling outside, and the rain suddenly burst forth until his eyelids start to droop.

Opens his eyes later. Minutes or hours he doesn't know. Grasping on a surreal moment between consciousness and sleep, he views Jules' dark bedroom. Outside rain patters lightly against the ancient roof. The sound is mollifying, the audio equivalent of waves gently rocking a boat. Without thought, his leg slides backwards, but runs over warm wrinkles in the fitted sheet. Worry doesn't even summit because he assumes Jules is just in the washroom. In the last week her bladder resets itself from every three hours, to every hour, to every half an hour.

The floor creeks in his hazy mind and he sighs, content and relaxed. Slipping more into sleep with every second passing. Outside the rain taps louder, thumps a solid stream and he imagines the river running over the roof shingles.

"Sam." She calls out to him. Highlighted and powdered in a soft hue of blue. The streetlight hits the window so the drops of rain are shadowed and magnified against the wall.

"What?" He sits up in bed, rubbing his eyes and the black raindrops dance against the wall. Distinguishes her hand gripping the footboard of the bed, the other one cradling her stomach. "What? What's wrong?"

She hisses air from her mouth and attempts to straighten her back. "My water broke."

"What?" His feet slap against the bare hardwood and he rounds the bed, catches the weak reflection of the splatter on the floor beneath her. The darkness staining the seam of her pants. Not even a second passes before darts away, grabbing her new pants, new underwear, a new shirt just in case. They don't have the bags packed for the hospital. They should still have five weeks.

"It's too early. I thought I had more time." Finally he understands, dropping the arm offering her clothing at his side. Her not feeling good, fatigue, sluggishness, everything leading back all the way to before the court case to this morning.

"Jules, were you in labor?"

"I thought it was premature. Like what happened when we went to the hospital before. I still have five weeks. It'll be early Sam, it'll—"

"It's going to be okay." Guiding hand on her back, he leads her away from the slipping hazard and to the side of the bed. "How far apart are your contractions?"

"Three minutes."

"Okay. Okay." He rubs her shoulder while she works on putting on new pants and repeatedly nods his head. Can only nod his head. He can't yell at her for not going to the hospital sooner. At six minutes. Neither of them knows what they're doing. "Okay. It's okay."

"Sam?"

"We have to get you to the hospital now."

"What about the bags. And we don't have anything for the baby. No clothes for it or—"

"It doesn't matter." He rolls up her shirt and hands it to her. Uses the dirty clothes to mop up clear liquid on the floor while she's redressing. "It's being born early; we need to make sure it's healthy."

"Sam." She's perching on the edge of the bed, her outline dips, stomach obviously dropped like he voiced earlier to her blind disregard. "What if—"

"It's not. Nothing will." Ceasing the mopping with his foot, he helps her up off the bed, stabilizes her with an arm around the back and underneath her bicep. Remembers walking her out of his apartment the same way less than two months earlier. Remembers how bad it turned out for them.

"You won't leave me, right?"

He has no idea what's going to happen and it scares the shit out of him. He has no control over what's going to happen and it scares the shit out of him even more. All he can do is reassure her and promise he'll be there, because he always will be. Unless she means 'leave her' after the baby is born, which is an even more ridiculous question. He's always been her support and she's always been his everything. "I'll be right beside you the entire time, Jules. I'm not going anywhere."

* * *

><p><em>Next Chapter - Oh gee, I'll give you one guess on what happens. That's right...Shit, it goes seriously if you can't guess what happens next...<br>_


	9. Premature Scorpio

_A/N: Hey Guys, since this is kinda a seminal chapter (gross pun intended) I decided to update quickly. Also it's been finished for like a month. Also it's definitely my favorite chapter. Also I won't be able to update probably for a week due to the final crash and burn of the last bit of classes (my University has this lame ass rule where they can't make anything due in the last two weeks of class, so all the Profs have the same great idea to make everything due that LAST week before).  
>I digress, I should also state that I have never been pregnant, nor born a child. However due to the poor literacy rate and lack of viable passtimes in my hometown, I am Aunt Shiggity to 5 kids through friends. I also went through a stint of wanting to be an ER or OB nurse, so there is where my "wealth" of "knowledge" comes from.<br>Thanks to everyone who took the time to review/favorite/alert and of course, read. I'm sure you've all been waiting for this chapter and if you haven't been paying attention to the slowly increasing in length rambles at the beginning of the chapter (I can't say I blame you) you're probably worried the story is going to end soon. You still have 5 more chapters. Enjoy. _

Illegitimate

Chapter 9

Premature Scorpio_  
><em>

He sits beside her for two hours, unable to do anything. Jules is too far along in her labor for them to give her an epidural and since her water broke, the baby needs to be delivered. He tries to distract her, distract himself. Acts like the last few weeks, months, fuck his whole life, hasn't been building up to meeting this baby. Distracts himself from praying the baby is fine even though it's about five weeks early. Distracts himself from hoping the baby doesn't look exactly like stupid Steve, the monkey wrench in his life's combustion engine.

Honestly, he assumed Jules would want to be alone, would want to remain unbothered and untouched during the labor pains which evolved from two and a half minutes to one minute to no minutes. But he's wrong. She grips his hand while her face contorts, her breath a silent whistle from dry, wrinkling lips. So he reminds her of the birthing classes they started to take, would continue to take had the birth not interrupted them. Does the breathing patterns with her and she laughs partway through. "You look ridiculous."

Brings her ice chips and explains they're gourmet, flown in fresh from the French region of the Alps. Rubs her back when, where, and how hard she tells him too. Massages her arms and her left thigh, which starts to go numb from her lying in the same position. So he helps her turn onto her side, which only intensifies the contractions. So he helps her turn back and just keeps his fingers prodding into her skin like dough.

Finally she gets to the point where there is no leeway time. No time to rest, or talk, or breathe. Her hand clamps down on his bicep while his fingers work her overwrought muscle. It tightens underneath his tips like a wet, wrung towel being stretched from both ends.

"I have to push."

"Are you sure?" His voice is low and calm. He doesn't want to undermine her decision because he can't even comprehend what she must be feeling right now. The pain and the innate fear. If anyone knows what she should be doing it's her, but the nurses implicitly warned her against pushing before she had too.

She's already thrashing her way up on the bed, maybe to relieve the pain in her back and thigh. Maybe to add pressure. "I need to push, Sam."

"Okay." He nods once. Then twice. "Okay." Another few nods. One hand wrapping around hers, the other holding the bed rail for dear life because this is really happening. "I should go get—" A doctor. A nurse. Steve. Anyone else. "Someone."

"Don't leave." Her arm yanks him down in place as her body lurches forward in the first push. Air compressing in her chest and nose. Finally she sighs and her body relaxes for a second.

Her hand is slack in his, though a few seconds ago he was almost certain she could have ripped his arm clear from his body and thrown it out the window before he knew what was happening. "Jules." He places a kiss on her knuckles, does it quickly before the next contraction tears through her and she punches him in the face. "Unless you want me to deliver this baby, I need to go get someone. I mean, don't mind, but I'm kind of rusty. I haven't taken the emergency course since—"

"Just go."

He leans out of the door and finds a gaggle of nurses loitering around the station located at the center of the floor. Chatting, laughing, joking, and drinking coffee. None of them have even checked on Jules for the last hour. "Sorry to interrupt," he shouts, one foot still in the threshold as he hears Jules groan behind him. "But my girlfriend is kind of having a baby in here."

"Dear, everyone's having a baby on this floor." A middle-aged, nurse responds to him and the rest of them resolve into deep chuckles.

"Yeah, well mine's premature and she's pushing."

The nurse who checked them in reluctantly detaches from the heard, adjusting the stethoscope around her neck, eyes full of attitude while walking by him and into the room. She rolls a stool to the end of the bed, expertly perching on the top while it still coasts. "How far apart are the contractions?"

"Less than a minute," Jules gasps while inhaling deeply and then pushing hard with a guttural noise. Her hands fuse with the bed sheets. He places a hand on her back where a fevered sweat has drenched through her gown pasting the hair which escaped from her bun to the back of her neck in expressionistic swirls.

"You shouldn't be—" the nurse lifts the sheet to check and rolls back. "You're crowning. You need to push." In an Olympian lope she's at the door and yelling, "We need a doctor now."

It happens really fast, Jules silently panicking because, well the nurse is panicking. Him running a hand over her soaked neck and telling her it will be fine. He's here, he isn't leaving. That she needs to push for the baby. By the time the doctor actually gets to the room, the head is out. It has hair. A lot of hair. Dark hair. In another two pushes the first shoulder comes out, then the other, then the rest of its body sort of topples out with a gush.

The doctor places the baby on Jules' chest, all sprawled out and crying for dear life. Tiny little hands balled into fists. Tiny feet with curled toes. Scrunched up face not viewing anything, eyes aching slits, nose punched in, mouth gaping and screaming. Hair plastered down with unidentified fluids. The baby looks like it was just thrown there. Dropped from the sky. Jules holds it to her, her hand covering its entire back. She sobs and runs a hand through the substances on its head. Kisses it while crying. Tells it things in breathless whispers.

And he's terrified because he doesn't feel a thing. Not a fucking thing. It's not love at first sight. Sure it's a baby, Jules' baby, and he's glad it's born and safe and generally healthy enough for them to leave it with her for a few minutes. But he thought he'd feel this everlasting connection with it after the months spent communicating through the monastic language of rubs and thumps. Thought the attachment would be instantaneous like what he felt the first time he saw Jules. But he doesn't feel anything. Jules was right.

She glances towards him and he laughs in disbelief for her. He leans forward and kisses her, placing a hand on the wailing newborn's back. Still doesn't feel a thing for it as lungs expand and compress underneath his palm. Cuts the cord with some inner apprehension. Ironically, the cut actually seals his fate in the family. But he made his choice, and he loves Jules too much to disappoint her. Maybe he'll eventually grow to love the baby. Maybe things like this, maybe they don't happen instantly. Maybe they take time.

When the baby is finally swaddled they instruct Jules to feed it. She lowers the cloaked newborn and shrugs a bit out of her gown. Once the baby is positioned it immediately takes to her breast. It was something she freaked out about a few days ago. Read a whole book basically on the do and don'ts of nursing. He told her not to worry about it. At least he was right about something.

"I should go get the stuff from home." He stands from a rocking chair in the corner, probably meant for her to breastfeed in, and tries not to wipe his hands on his pants. Doesn't want the gesture to stand for the whole situation.

"You're leaving?"

"We didn't bring anything Jules." His tone is a little harsh, a little on edge and he mentally reprimands himself. Dials down the volume and emotion. "You don't have any clothes. We don't have a car seat or a bassinet since the team can't take subtle hints like 'Jules needs a bassinet'."

"Yeah, that stuff's important. But we have a baby, Sam. Who is healthy." She nuzzles the head nestled at her breast. "A little underweight but completely healthy. Don't you want to—"

"The sooner I do it, the sooner it's done."

"Okay." Bouncing the baby once it coos and unlatches from her breast. With a single hand she fixes her gown. "Just try not to take too long."

"I won't."

"Could you maybe phone Sarge?" She adjusts the baby against her shoulder, stroking a hand up and down its back. Fingers lightly playing with the tuft of dark brown hair now dry. The baby still hasn't opened its eyes. "Tell him to spread the news."

"Sure."

At home he packs up clothes for her. Pajamas, loose tops, sweat pants, nursing bras. They don't have any clothing for the baby. Didn't know what it was going to be. Never got back the gifts from the baby shower which ended up going into the evidence lockup limbo. Brings his laptop so they can pick out a bassinet and a car seat for him to go buy. He doesn't want to be accountable for that decision. It's the same reason he's not running out to get clothing for the newborn.

He rests a few minutes on the side of the bed where less than ten hours earlier they were peacefully asleep. Where he was not only content with his life but elated with it. Where he couldn't wait to meet the little person who made Jules go to the bathroom every hour. Who made her eat more roughage than the pachyderm exhibit at the Toronto Zoo. Who actually got her off those goddamn smoothies. Who person who finally made her leave Team One. Now he doesn't want to go back to the hospital. Now he wants to grabs his stuff and drive to the airport, but he won't because she's right, he's not like that.

He calls Sarge. Lets him know Jules had the baby early. It's healthy, just a little bit underweight so they might have to stay in the hospital for an extra day or two. Their boss holds all the emotions he's void of. He's never been present for an SRU birth before, doesn't know if this is the normal reaction but he thinks it's a little special because it's Jules' baby.

"What's the name? Is it a boy or a girl?" Sarge laughs, almost cries into the phone. In the background Ed is yelling something about the date and who had it in the pool. Then there's general outrage because none of them thought to pick this premature of a due date.

"She didn't name it yet. At least not when I left."

"It? Sam, what do you mean when you left?" The joviality drains from Sarge's voice, replaced with the stern vocal bumps he's only heard when his boss has a hard time controlling his temper.

There's a long pause where only unregistered phone static exchanges between them. He's not trying to be rude, or prove a point, or plan his next move. His brain, fried on no sleep, a futile existence and warped emotions, is trying to piece together whether she had a boy or a girl. Then he remembers the color of the little cap on its head.

"Jules had a girl." Thumb and forefinger pinch the bridge of his nose at the intense pressure pooling there. Didn't name her because they only had a name for a boy. They, along with the majority of the SRU, thought she was having a boy.

"Sam."

"She'd probably like it if you stopped by later."

There's a pause and he waits to see if Sarge will accept his inability to talk about the baby. He's offering the possibility of a discussion later at the hospital. "Yeah, I'll stop by after the shift. Does she need anything?"

He doesn't know if Sarge is talking about Jules or the baby. "She has nothing for the baby. I mean nothing. Clothes. Diapers. A crib. A car seat. Pacifiers. Blankets. Anything you want to bring I'm sure she'd appreciate."

The conversation ends abruptly and he knows a nastier, longer continuation is going to occur in a side room at the hospital. With Sarge crossing his arms, standing close to him and keeping his voice a threatening whisper. Discussing how he has responsibilities now even though they're not his responsibilities since on Valentine's Day he didn't sleep with Jules.

When he returns with her overnight bag she's asleep in the bed and the baby is nowhere to be found. He doesn't gripe about it. Sets her things down on a sideboard and quells the urge to scroll up how much a ticket out West would be by exiting the room and sitting in an empty chair beside the doorway. He places his head in his hands and tries to comprehend the way he's feeling. There must be a logical explanation for it. He doesn't remember reading about the need to flee with a mixture of crushing guilt being a side effect of birth for the father. The stand in space holding father.

Maybe fifteen minutes pass with him drowning in self-pity when the inept nurse from the delivery arrives with the baby tucked snuggly in her arm. Little pink cap sticking out from a layer of elbow flab.

"She's asleep." He mumbles as the nurse tries to enter the room, juggling the baby in one arm. A technique, though it looks practiced, makes him a little uneasy.

"Oh." The nurse peeks through the crack in the door and gently closes it, lips pursing together in puzzlement. Then she turns to him, gesturing to the baby. "Baby Girl Callaghan, right?"

"Yeah?" Nodding slowly, not sure if she wants him to confirm this or not. He can't tell the newborns apart. That's her job.

"Great. Here." And she reaches down to deposit the newborn into his arms.

"Wait. What?" He jumps. The chair rocks backwards on its legs then topples forwards when his weight disappears.

"You're the father, right?"

He pauses, doesn't really know how to answer that question. Actually he does. He's not a father. Not in any definition of the term. Not even in the broadest sense. He's not related to the baby; because of this he cannot provide even its basic needs. Food. Shelter. Comfort. Love. "I can't feed her."

"She doesn't need to be fed." The nurse huffs, loose hand on her hip. Only one thick arm supporting the baby. "She just needs some attention."

Examining the precarious position of the baby as it begins to stir in the nurse's arm he decides holding it would be the lesser of two evils. Trusts himself more than he trusts the nurse who would have let Jules deliver her daughter alone if he wasn't present. "Yeah. Fine."

So he sits holding a very tiny, very wiggly little person. And he still feels nothing. He sighs, rests the baby in the crook of his arm and attempts to fall back into the despairs of his mind. But the baby grimaces, lower lip trembles and a whimper escapes her.

"Hey, hey, hey."

He rests her against his forearms so she's facing him. Red blotches cover her face like cowhide and her skin looks wet from spit and mucus. Her cries grow in volume and in the empty hallway they're only amplified. He doesn't want her to wake Jules. Doesn't want Jules to think he wasn't trying. Doesn't want Jules to know he doesn't care.

When he wipes at her chin and nose with the soft blanket she's swaddled in, one of her arms pop free of the confines and swipes spitefully through the air.

"Of course."

She full out cries. Closed eyes disappearing into refolds of skin. The tears rolling down her cheeks connecting with liquid oozing out of her nose and her toothless mouth.

"Okay. You know what?"

He bends at the waist so his face is inches from the baby's. Voice a harsh whisper.

"This hasn't exactly been easy for me either."

Her body squirms on his arms. Feet dully kick within the confines of the blanket. One fist still mechanically ticks up and down in the air.

"I thought this would be different. I thought me and your mom would be married. I thought you would be mine."

He transfers her small weight solely to his right arm, while his left hand fumbles with her arm. Trying to get it back within the blanket. Trying to keep her warm.

"I thought I would love you."

Right at the end of his sentence, as if she can already understand him, her little hand squeezes around his index finger which travelled too close to her palm. He stops talking. She stops crying. She stops kicking. He stops breathing.

Her little head, covered by the tiniest knit cap, fits in the palm of his hand. Her spine relaxes against the underside of his forearm. Her little fingers have quite a grip. His elbow angles to elevate her so he can observe closer and in better light. At the movement, her eyes open revealing beautiful pale green irises. Not Jules's dark brown. Definitely not stupid Steve's whatever. A recessive anomaly. Pupils unfocused at first but then seem to find him and settle.

They both copy each other's expression. Staring in awe, mouth agape. Then she yawns. Closes her mouth and pouts. An exact and perfect imitation of her mother's pout. Invisible eyebrows curve into a peaceful expression while she's in his arms and her eyes begin to drift closed. Hand relaxes around his finger but doesn't let go.

And he's in love.

A few hours later he's fallen asleep in the modest rocking chair, which is now as comfortable as a king-sized bed at a five star resort. He only manages an hour or two with his eyes closed. Wakes up once when the baby coos loudly as Jules changes her on the bed. Kisses her distended stomach and rubs their noses together.

And it's so different now. So fucking different because he gets it. He feels the things he should feel, all the amazing emotions, all positive, all overflowing from his body. The pride, because both of them, they're his. Just like he's theirs. They're a family. The elation because she's finally here, and she's healthy and creating the cutest noises and the most perfect thing he's ever seen because she's her mother's daughter. The relief because she doesn't look a fucking thing like Steve. The love because it's all mutual.

He grins inwardly; eyes still closed hearing the coos and Jules telling their daughter how much she means. The soft, whispers buoyant on love are interrupted by a light tapping at the door.

The door creaks a little accompanied by a hesitant, "Jules?"

Through eye slits so thin, his vision almost blurs, he observes Sarge creeping around the door. Bright, beaming, and un-uniformed.

He decides to play dead for the visit. Not for himself, to save the need to explain what exactly happened to him today. His moral dilemma and his almost abandonment of his tiny tiny perfect daughter. The thought of which twists his stomach in an infinite loop. Steve already abandoned her. He'll do better.

No, he stays silent. Feigns sleep because Sarge is the closest thing Jules has to real support besides himself. The closest thing she has to a father. They deserve a moment to bond with the new baby too. If he had any doubts in his categorizations, the amount of gifts Sarge brings is indication enough.

"The guys didn't want to come without gifts. They're going to drop by later."

"They didn't have to bring anything. You didn't either."

"Well Sam said you had nothing for her, so I bought a few things. Dresses, pajamas, some clothing sets. You'd be amazed what happens to a grown man when he's a baby store, Jules."

"Probably the same thing that happened to me, which is why Sam and I had to leave and never return."

However, his plan has a downfall, and he actually does fall asleep. Several times. He only gets snippets of their conversations. The next time he sneaks awakens, Sarge is holding their daughter. Falling in love, the exact same way he did. He can just tell, because their daughter exudes something he can't even describe. A quality that relaxes him, brings out the best in him, gives him a reason to be the best man he can be.

"Her eyes are gorgeous."

Jules laughs though it's to cover a loud sniffle. She puts her hand on their daughters back and her smile glows. "They're my mom's eyes. Not just green. I mean the exact shade of green. It's kind of nice."

Then there's a pause.

"I, uh." Sarge chuckles nervously, rubs their daughter's back as she leans against his shoulder, lips open and drool freely flowing. "I don't want to go asking questions I have no right to be asking." And he means it not because it's a personal question, but because he's not Jules' father. "But is everything okay with—" and he only assumes Sarge gestures to him.

"Everything's fine. After she was born I think—" retracts her hand to her lap, smile running thin. "I think he just needed time to adjust. But he deserved it. He helped me, helped her more than you can imagine. I don't think I could have done it without him."

"You could have, Jules." Their daughter coos, eyes closed, full lips suckling air in her sleep. "It would have been hard and you wouldn't have realized a lot of things, but you could have because you're strong."

Eventually he rouses from his fake hibernation. Stretches and forges a yawn and even does a theatric start at Sarge's presence. His boss gives him a deadpanned expression, half-lidded eyes, and straight lips. But he offers a hand in congratulations. He's won the lottery.

The next day he drives back to the hospital. Left to shower, grab a few things he'd forgotten yesterday and pick up the car seat they both agreed on. Jules room is bursting with gifts from the Team. Balloons, bouquets, diapers, clothing both used and new, and a picture of the bassinet they all chipped in to buy. It's being delivered to the house.

It's interesting to see how each team member reacts to their daughter. Sophie and Shelly babble baby talk to her, which only confuses her. Ed holds her, pegs her exact weight by comparing her to a rifle, and then admits that because she's Jules' daughter, she could have a future on the SRU. He and Jules immediately refuse. Wordy grins, enlightens that she looks exactly like Jules. Spike adds she looks nothing like a watermelon, but becomes strangely silent while holding her. Since Jules hasn't picked a name yet, the Team affectionately refers to her as Baby Scorpio because of her astrological sign.

Jules sits up in bed, dressed in green cotton pajamas. They're ugly as hell, they both think so, but they button at the front so she can breastfeed with ease. The color is dark enough to hide her skin underneath. Their daughter is against her shoulder, head resting against one of the fleece cloths Ed and Sophie gave them. He's already been thrown up on. It's because they work as a team, Jules feeds her, and then he burps her. With burping comes the risk of getting vomited on. Not just a little bit, everything in her stomach. So he walked around all day with a half digested breast milk stain on his shirt while Jules fed her again.

An adjustable table angles over the bed, and stops above Jules' folded legs. She's reading over a few pieces of paper and immediately he worries it's something about the trial. That Edith and Harriet are filing another suit. But she grins at him, a hand rubbing over their daughter's back. She's wearing a white onesie with little teddy bears on it that Sarge bought her.

"Is everything okay?" His hands grow clammy around the handle of the car seat, so he abandons it in the rocking chair. Sways for a minute on his feet, unsure whether to approach the bed or not.

"Yeah, everything is fine." There's a small burp and Jules uses the cloth to wipe around their daughter's mouth. Her arm curls up near her face as she starts to fall into the blissful sleep she usually does after being fully fed. "I think I've got a name."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, I wanted to get your approval on it though." Their daughter is now limp in Jules' arms as she rotates her around, holding her out for him.

Immediately he covers the space to scoop her up. She's so small, but almost at her target weight. She fits comfortably in his arms. Perfectly coddled half against his chest, half on his bicep like she was always meant to be there. Her arms fold into her lap, and her one leg falls free of his arm until he returns it. "What is it?"

"Charlotte. Not Charley or Lottie. Just Charlotte."

A dry chuckle escapes his mouth. Not sarcastic, or mocking, but a little disbelieving.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"No, what is it?"

He sits on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle the sleeping newborn. "Charlotte was my grandma's name."

"Oh, well it's not that—"

"No. I love it Jules." He bows his head towards the peaceful, small face. "I love it."

One of Jules' legs uncoils and touches the side of his thigh. With his free hand, he wraps his fingers around her toes. "You should put on socks."

"I want her middle name to be Morgan."

There's a pause. A moment where he can only feel the tiny chest rising and falling in his arms. The heat radiating off the little body. "Decided to pull the whole Band-Aid off, huh?"

Her lips roll together in a purse, then flush out in the briefest of pouts. One easily recognizable now. "Are you okay with it?"

His daugh—Charlotte coos in her sleep. Jerks a shoulder and knits her eyebrows at him. He bounces his arm once and the near wince on her face dissipates. Then rubs his hand over Jules' foot. "I think it's a nice way for him to be remembered."

She grins. It's one of those grins meaning more than it's supposed to. Telling him how much she appreciates him, because if she said it out loud, she's afraid the situation might become too real and he might run like all the other men in her life. He understands her, knows what she thinks are her weak points and accepts them. He loves her, blindly, faithfully, through time. He loves them both.

In her chicken scratch writing, the same writing in which seven months ago he received a life crushing note on the same night Charlotte lost her biological father, she writes their daughter's full name. Charlotte Morgan Callaghan. Her last name attached to her daughter doesn't bother him either. Not even a smidgen. Because he knows eventually, the little girl in his arms, and the woman he's so desperately in love with across from him in the hospital bed wearing the ugliest pajamas he's ever seen, will both have his last name.

Same hand signs the box indicating maternal relationship and then taps the pen to her full bottom lip. He watches the muscles in the corner of her mouth bunch in thought as her eyes squint and he knows she's debating asking him something important. Always hesitates. "I wanted to talk to you about something else too."

He's about to crack some low humor joke. But she's finally taking the initiative to ask him something, without much hesitation and he doesn't want to scare her away. All he can manage is a breathless, "Sure."

"You don't have to do this." Pen taps three times on her lip as her eyes dart to the birth certificate and back up to him. "It's just a suggestion."

"Jules." Finally he chuckles a bit because she's so damn cute when she's this nervous. It must mean a lot to her, which is enough to get him to agree. "What is it?"

"I was wondering if you wanted to sign as the father." Nodding at the certificate, she removes the pen from her mouth in case he chooses to.

Of course he wants to; he's just stunned she asked at all, let alone the second day they have a baby together. A baby she knows he's going to stick around for. He thinks that's why he doesn't move. The realization of her knowing what they are together. What they mean together. Where they're going together.

Instead she construes his freezing as not wanting too. "You don't have to. I mean if you change your mind you can always fully adopt her down the line, which I mean, you'll have to do anyway. But I just thought." The pen droops in her hand, and her eyes drop from his face and back to the blank 'father's' box. "You'd only get one chance to—but I don't want to pressure so—"

"Jules, relax." Adept hand catches the pen as it slips from between her shaky fingers. "I do want to and I will. I will. I was just thinking that—it just means a lot that you asked."

So he sits parallel to her, one leg stretching out beside hers, the other balancing his body by rooting to the floor. With Charlotte in one arm, and Jules resting her chin on his shoulder and stabilizing the page he signs his name. Officially becomes a father for the first time in his life and the moment is surreal. Cooing and pen scratching. Jules pressing her lips to his cheek and hugging him tight. In emotional breathes explains to him all the things he's been longing to hear.

Her forehead rests against his chin as he transfers Charlotte over to her. Wraps an arm around them, lets his daughter absently grab his finger in her sleep. The same finger with the same hand.

* * *

><p><em>Next Chapter - Life with a baby isn't all it's cracked up to be...But it's still really cute. <em>


	10. Genetic Breaks

_A/N: Hey guys, just a quick update because I'm still in that horrid space where everything is happening all at once (my definition of everything is a car crash with a whale. He's not involved he's just there to eff things up).  
>I'm trying desperately to finish this story and I'm tooling around with the idea of a oneshot sort of epilogue piece just for fun. But my attention has been on writing the wrong chapter of Just-World because it's more interesting.<br>As always thanks to everyone who reviewed/favorited/alerted and of course, read. Glad you guys are still enjoying the story so much, I'll try my darndest to finish it up. _

Illegitimate

Chapter 10

Genetic Breaks

His eyes shoot open and he reaches for his alarm clock. Every morning he tries to be spry in slapping the 'off' button and every morning she wakes anyway. He doesn't think she even sleeps anymore. His hand hits the clock, and it's silent, but for the wrong reason. It's 3:23am; he should still have a good two hours of sleep. Eyes squint and adjust to the blurring of the glowing numbers. He wonders if they're truthful and he grabs the clock to interrogate it.

"I got her." Jules response is recorded from an answering machine. Programmed like her movements through the predawn darkened room. Her footsteps are light and lithe; he doesn't even hear her leave the room.

From down the hallway Charlotte cries, which must be the trigger to his early awakening. She's three months old and he hasn't done a single sleep-deprived feeding. Not from his protests because he's the one who has the physically demanding, early waking job. Not because he can't supply her with the food the same way Jules does, she pumps milk but Charlotte really dislikes bottles, he can't really blame her. Not because he's resenting the fact he's a fraction related to her. That issue died in a hospital hallway. It's because Jules won't let him.

He's offered. Countless times. Maybe not every time because some of them, he's ashamed to admit, he's slept right through. All the cries he's awake for he's offered to feed her. If not feed her, then burp her. Soothe her. Read to her from giant cardboard and cloth book made for senior citizens who can't see an inch in front of their faces. Rock her to sleep in the chair. Sway with her in his arms like he did to get her to sleep the first week they were home. Jules refuses.

Despite them being a couple. Despite them all being a family, nighttime care of Charlotte is purely Jules' reign. It's not such a bad thing except she also has full reign of Charlotte in the daytime while he's out putting bullets into people's brains. This leaves him a brief window of three, sometimes four hours in which to hold, play with, and cuddle Charlotte when he gets home.

Sometimes he plays with her bright, easily accessible toys on the ground with her, though she's still completely stationary. Talks to her while she punches from under hanging stars and moons. Sometimes they read those big sketch comedy books with a maximum of five words on each page. Her pale green eyes set on the page and her hand shoved completely into her mouth. Long lashes fanned, eyes intensely watching as he points out objects and explains what they are. Other times the game is on and he dresses her in a little Canucks jersey the Team got him as a gag gift. He didn't laugh, he loves it. He explains the plays to her as she starts to fall asleep in the crook of his arm. Same hand wrapped around the same finger. Sometimes he swears at a lousy ref call and Jules gives him shit.

Charlotte is starting to sleep through the night which is a relief to him. Not because he did anything at all, but because Jules looks worse than she ever did during the pregnancy. From lack of sleep, from lack of a solid meal, from lack of relaxation. When he does get to give her a break she cleans the house. When he tells her to go lie down or to take a hot bath, or go for a walk she gives him shit.

The crying trickles to a stop and a few minutes later Jules ghosts over the floor and back under the covers beside him.

"I don't mind getting her." His voice is gravelly, devoid of liquid, parched by sleep, by embrace. He realizes that although they've been a family for the last three months, there's an extreme lack of contact. A lack of gentleness. A lack of caressing affection and affirmation. At least between him and Jules.

She turns her back away from him in the bed. Boney shoulder blades protruding through her nightshirt. "I know."

"Jules." He sighs. Watches the gloom swirling around on the ceiling, the waning moon, weak streetlights and traffic don't add much illumination. He's left in the dark. "You need to let me start helping you more."

"I'm fine." She rotates towards him as if to prove the point. Hands curling underneath her chin, leaded eyelids ashen and almost sealed shut. Acting her way through the problem. "Where is this coming from?"

He tucks a few strands of hair behind her ear. The touch of her skin is cold and it shocks him, but he rests his hand on her cheek. They haven't been this close in three months. It hasn't been all laughing and getting the video camera to record every movement Charlotte makes. It hasn't been cuddling together on the couch to watch her sleep. It's been rough and hard as hell, especially for Jules. Maybe she's scared because so many things have physically tried to remove Charlotte from her before she was even born. Maybe it's the need to ensure Charlotte bonds with her, the need to overcompensate for her own mother. "You're going to burn yourself out."

Thin fingers wrap limply around his wrist as she closes her eyes fully at his touch. "I'm fine Sam."

He knows what he's really worried about. Knows that she must be worried about it in some faction. She's overworking herself. Overstressing herself. Not sleeping, or eating properly. He thinks the contributing cause is her lack of maternal guidance and what stole her mother from her. He has to say something. If it was just him and Jules, he would keep his mouth shut to avoid the impending rage. But it's not just them. He's doing this for Charlotte. "I'm worried."

"What are you worried about?" Her voice is disengaging, disappearing from the conversation as she falls asleep. Her thumb drags over his knuckles in slow, lulling sweeps growing wider in occurrence.

"I'm worried that if you keep acting like this, like nothing's wrong, something worse is going to happen." Her eyes are still closed and her finger has stopped its pendulum effect. He exhales and decides to expose his fear because if he doesn't now, he never will. "I'm worried you're going to get depressed."

She opens her eyes slowly, naturally, cautiously. Then detangles from his hand and sits up in the bed. The comforter laps around her waist. Consumes her. There's a good foot between them when she questions, "What did you just say?"

"Jules, you know I don't mean anything personal. It's not a sign of weakness or—"

"What the fuck Sam?" Her voice is still eerily composed, depicting just how much he's hurt her. Her eyes jitter with unbridled fury, but her lower lip trembles when she's not speaking revealing the extent of her turmoil.

"I didn't mean it like—" He exhales harshly, contemplates reaching out to her and wonders if he did, if his arm would even return with a hand. "I didn't mean it like that."

"Really? How did you mean it then?"

"I just meant—" There is no good way to explain it to her. No way to tell her what he was thinking, how he thinks it will affect her, and how he only wants the best for their family. "I just meant that because you're so overworked now you're more susceptible to postpartum depression. And depression is—" He pauses contemplating finishing the sentence at all. But when she doesn't respond he continues, "hereditary."

"Great." She flings the covers off her legs. "Thanks Sam."

"Come on. I know it's a lot. I just want to help."

"No Sam. Right now you're exactly like all those people who wanted to take her away from me. Why don't you go give them this information?"

"Jules—"

"I would never hurt her Sam. Never. In any way. Including doing anything to remove myself from her because I know how much growing up without a mom hurts. So fuck you."

Still tender footed she leaves the bedroom. There's no slamming doors. He figures she went into the guest bedroom, but in an hour when he gets up because he can't sleep; he finds her lumped in the rocking chair with Charlotte nestled against her chest. A blanket is sprawled across both of them.

For two days she doesn't say a word to him, not a single word and for two days he feels like a dick. Sure he has the right to worry; these are logically proven medical facts. But he keeps berating himself because there had to have been a more reasonable solution, a more practical way of bringing it up to her. She's solely taking care of the household. Every day when he comes home it's clean even though there's a new first baby. She does the laundry, his clothes, his uniform. Sometimes there are even little notes in the pocket from her telling how much she loves him. She feeds the household, always has supper ready within the hour when he gets home. He's never asked her to do any of this. She just does.

He just wants her to relax and she can't do that with a baby and him. So after two days of not even receiving a grunt or gesture from her, he takes drastic actions. On Sunday, his day off, he sets his alarm and gets up at regular time. He's been sleeping in the guest room so the sound doesn't rouse anyone but himself. It's the only positive to come out of the whole mess.

Quickly, he showers, dresses and grabs Charlotte's bag which he packed with all the essentials the night before. She's still sleeping when he creeps into her nursery. Four fingers ringing on her bottom lip and dressed in her counting sheep onesie Sarge bought. Their boss has an affinity for buying baby clothes now.

There's an unspoken rule that sleeping babies should never be woken. Never. So when he lifts Charlotte and she starts to grumble he isn't surprised.

"Hey Sweetie." He coos to her, raising her head of soft dark brown hair to rest against his shoulder. A fist thumps against his arm and he remembers when she kicked at him from within Jules. He smiles and kisses her plump cheek in quick loud burst. "Good morning Charlotte."

She recognizes his voice and stops before her sniffles become full blown wails. Instead she greets him with an amused, toothless, gummy grin. He usually doesn't get to see her that often in the morning, or spend much time with her. She must understand the fault in the routine and apparently approves of it.

"You're going to spend the day with me." He avoids using the term Dad or Daddy around her. He and Jules, because of their newfound awkwardness and responsibilities, haven't decided on what Charlotte should consider him yet, despite his name being on her birth certificate. Sometimes when he's alone and he can't help it, the 'D' word slips out.

Because he rarely sees her in the mornings, he never gets to pick what she wears for the day. Jules is dedicated to her not being restricted to dresses every day. Despite the influx of dresses received from the Team and the few he purchased, the only time she wears dresses is on special occasions like the SRU Christmas party or her baptism. So he puts her in a little brown dress with ruffles and a pink sweater.

Amazingly he manages to get Charlotte into her tiny coat, knitted sheep-ear hat and car seat without her making a sound. She analyzes every movement he makes as he carries her down the stairs and out the door to his SUV loaded with her stroller, her diaper bag and pumped bottles of milk. In her crib he leaves a solitary note explaining to Jules that Charlotte is safe with him and to take the day to relax. He expects her call any minute. Actually expects her to call Sarge up and have the SRU track down his SUV.

The day is preplanned. They leave the house a little after seven and since he changed Charlotte, she didn't cry to wake Jules. First is a brisk morning walk through the park. A thick layer of February ice incasing the tree branches and leaves. It starts to snow and Charlotte coos at the thick moving flakes before her eyes.

Then he grabs a coffee and a cup half-filled with boiling water to heat up Jules' breast milk. He shakes the bottle, tests it on his wrists and then spends a few minutes feeding Charlotte. It's only the third time he's ever gotten to feed her. Big green eyes open wide and staring up at him as she reluctantly takes the bottle. Same hand finds his same finger and he talks to her while her lips smack away. While burping her, he reads the comics from the paper aloud, then shows her the pictures. He changes her before they leave.

The next stop is his apartment. It's the first and last time Charlotte will ever see the place. He has to be there to sign the closing papers for his realtor and wait for the new owner to do the same. Jules has no idea he sold his place, or that it's been empty for almost three months. About a week after Charlotte was born, he put it up for sale and made classified ads for most of the furniture. Whatever they could use he moved into the house or stored in the basement. He didn't want to tell her because he has plans for the income. A little for Charlotte's university fund, a little for another occasion, and the rest in a special savings fund.

"I see why you kept cancelling our appointments." His realtor, a professional woman in her mid-fifties observes with a grin as he opens the door to his echoing, gutted apartment. Over one arm he has Charlotte's diaper bag which is in no sense of the word masculine, and in the other he hand he holds the arm of her car seat. He hates carrying her in the car seat. So does Jules. But when they have to go anywhere they might be awhile they bring it along.

"I told you I had a good excuse." He grunts and shuts the door behind him. Almost goes to throw his keys on the side table which no longer exists.

"What's the little angel's name?"

"Charlotte."

The realtor fusses over Charlotte in her car seat on the kitchen counter, while he signs the closing papers. Charlotte is not as easily amused and keeps a straight lipped response to the woman's baby talking and poking fingers.

"She is absolutely gorgeous. She doesn't look like you at all though."

"No." Shakes his head, and clicks the pen. The realtor is tickling at Charlotte's toes, oblivious to the stitches she's ripped open. He clears his throat and sets the pen on the counter sliding it over with the paper. "She looks like her mom."

Finally, sharing his exact sentiments, Charlotte grimaces and wrenches to the side a faulty attempt to get away from French manicured prodding nails.

"Oh, someone is fussy."

Before the realtor can twitch another finger, he intercepts and clicks Charlotte free of her car seat prison. The blanket covering her plump legs falls back into the carrier and he holds her against him. "She probably just misses her mom."

Then he considers his statement. Maybe Charlotte does miss Jules. She's never been away from her mother. Sure he wanted to give Jules some time off, but he didn't think to how Charlotte would react to the absence of her mother. He wonders if she misses Steve. If it's possible for her to miss Steve. But she's stopped crying. Is staring at him again. Same hand around the same finger as he holds her.

After the deal goes through and Charlotte puts up with a few more empty nest syndrome manifested pokes, he secures the seat back into his car. It's something he's good at, maybe better than Jules at, because he does it so often. It's one of the only things she's delegated to him.

Charlotte grins at him. The same one from a few hours ago, wide and bright without a single tooth. Little eyes curling. He wants to buy her something. Not sure what. Everything. But he doesn't want to spoil her. She doesn't have many stuffed animals, or dolls, or many girl things at all.

But it's a little before eleven and his cell phone rings as he sits in the front seat. She's later than he expected.

"Hello?"

"What the fuck Sam?" The calmness from three days ago has dissipated. With no baby in the house to stay composed for, her rage is channeling swiftly into expletives he hasn't heard since they dated three years ago.

"Jules, she's fine she—"

"You took my fucking baby."

"She's our baby and you needed to relax."

"And your way of making me relax was to kidnap my daughter."

"I didn't kidnap her I just wanted to—"

"You want me to relax Sam? Bring her home now."

So he does. Because he loves them both. Because he wants them both to be happy. Because him bonding with his daughter is trumped by Jules intuition as a biological mother. He parks his SUV and releases Charlotte from the car seat again, preferring to share the last few seconds with her in his arms, blanket wrapped around her legs because it's snowing large wet flakes. One hits her nose and her face scrunches.

He crosses the threshold with the diaper bag inside the carrier in one hand and Charlotte in his other arm. Jules, in her blue plaid pajama pants and an oversized gray wool sweater is pacing a trench into the hardwood floors which are glowing from her activity.

"Hi Baby." Her outstretched hands fall short of the sweater's cuffed material held in her palm. Charlotte notices her, immediately perking up in his arm, dangling feet kicking in excitement and the gummy grin on her face.

He sets the car seat on the floor and relinquishes Charlotte into Jules' arms. She lifts their daughter into the air and presses their noses together. Jules speaks softly about how much she missed her and Charlotte coos with delight, her hand curling against the collar of the sweater. It's a warming scene that makes their home feel like a home.

And then he wrecks it.

"Jules?"

Calm voice returning and holding their grinning, gurgling daughter she states softly, "I should punch you in the face."

"I just wanted to give you a break."

"Did I ask for one Sam?"

"I'm sorry. I should have—"

"I'm asking for one now." There's a pause, a hesitancy in her voice like she's doing this to teach him a lesson.

"Jules come on."

"Do you know what it did to me to wake up and find her not here? You both not here?" She clasps Charlotte tighter to her, resting the side of her cheek against their daughter's full head of hair. "You're afraid of me having some sort of breakdown and everything you do pushes me towards it. I'm so furious with you right now, but I don't want to upset her. So maybe you should just leave for awhile."

So he brings in the stroller and leaves. Doesn't even get to be with his family on his day off. Tries not to feel excluded. He's new to this whole parenting thing, just like Jules is, but for some odd reason he isn't catching on as quick. He doesn't understand Charlotte's different cries and what they mean. Jules can hear her squeak and know exactly what the problem is by one note in one octave. He usually understands what she wants by process of elimination or by Jules telling him.

He is a parent. He's Charlotte's dad, or father figure. However close to being a dad without actually being the full definition of a dad. A few matching chromosomes short of being a fully fledged father. But that's everyone else's opinion. Everyone who doesn't understand their situation, their family. Maybe even Jules, who is striving to take care of Charlotte's every need so he won't get angry or bored with her and leave them. People have a habit of leaving Jules. But her fussing over their daughter only roots his fears that she'll never fully be his daughter. Something people outside of their small family are constantly reminding him of.

Even his parents don't understand the situation. He phoned his mom a few days after Charlotte was born and explained she and The General were sort of grandparents, elaborating his situation with Jules to an answering machine. His mom returned his call and hesitantly raised the idea that since none of Charlotte's genes matched his own, she was not their 'real' granddaughter. They haven't spoken since. It upsets him because he fully expected it from The General, but not his Mom.

He keeps the day's schedule despite not having a daughter to care for. He goes to a bookstore and picks up a novel Jules has been dropping hints about for the past week or so. He also grabs two more large cardboard books with plots as loose as undone shoelaces. The next stop is a toy store where he grabs a soft pink dog for Charlotte. She has no dogs. She has barely anything pink. It works. Lastly he goes to the grocery store and grabs some of the necessities, plus the food he knows is on the list. The only place he doesn't visit is the jewelry store. He was going to go, was actually intent and excited on going, but the idea is pocketed.

It's a little after five and the sky is a mute white with the foreshadowing of a February snowstorm. He's driving home because he doesn't want the food to go bad, and because as of today he doesn't have any other place to go. Probably should have told Jules prior to her kicking him out that he sold his apartment, but he wants to surprise her with the money. Wants to save it for future planning and a store he didn't visit.

The house is silent when he opens the front door and settles a group of plastic bags on the floor. Contemplates calling for her, but argues against it in his mind. What if she's asleep or Charlotte? But then what if something is wrong? His fingers twitch in the lapse of bag handles and suddenly she appears from the top of the stairs. Charlotte probably went down late for her nap because of him, which will only incur more fury.

He really doesn't think his confidence can take anymore beatings and he turns to leave before she says a word to him, or God forbid, with childless arms, make good on her threat from earlier. She stops him on the front porch. He hears her bounding down the stairs, light feet suddenly leaden, but she doesn't obstruct him from wanting to get the rest of the groceries and leaving again for an infinite amount of time like she told him he should.

But she runs at him so fast he barely has any time to react. Just her body ramming into his at such a force he almost topples down the icy front porch steps.

"I thought you weren't coming back." She mutters into the front of his winter coat. Thick clouds of steam bursting from her mouth with each word. "I was so angry at you and then as soon as you left I missed you so much. Why would you come back?"

Hugging her tight, he watches the warm porch light from inside the frosted glass. "Because this is my home? Because I love you? Because I love her? Why wouldn't I want to come back?"

She half laughs, half sobs in his arms. His hand rests on her back hidden underneath waves of wool. She lost the weight she gained with Charlotte and then some in these last three months. From sleep deprivation. From odd meals. From taking care of everyone and everything except herself. From carrying a constant concern. "Go back inside; I'll get the rest of the groceries."

Not hearing him, she kisses him on the lips. Cold, shaking palms planted on his cheeks. Kissing him like he's going back to Afghanistan and not to get groceries from a trunk she can see from the porch. "I love you Sam. I do. I know that I don't always—"

"You always do." Her frozen fingers end up in his. His eyes drop to her bare feet on the snow spotted porch and he immediately shuffles her backwards towards the house. She snorts at the action as he half carries her into the threshold. "Dress for the weather."

She kisses him again, less sentimental, more suggestive and he can feel the warmth of her and the house already. One of her hands worms up inside the sleeve of his coat to rest directly on his arm and he can't think of a better feeling. "I missed you Sam. Too much. If you want to be with Charlotte more, who am I to say no. You're her father."

His hand stops playing with her ponytail and for a minute the only sound is the wind from the open door rustling the plastic bags. "What did you say?"

"That you're her dad. I mean—you are, aren't you?"

"Yeah." He nods with the biggest exhalation of air he didn't know his lungs were hoarding. His fingers return to weaving through her hair. "No one else seems to get that."

* * *

><p><em>Next Chapter - <em>_One of my other favorite chapters, so you know it's gonna be tragic. That's right, not even babies are safe from my keyboard.  
><em>


	11. Party Favors

_A/N: Hey guys, long time no see. Well not really because we don't really 'see' each other per say and then I've been updating 'Just-World' a little more. This was one of my favorite chapters. Fun Fact: I like the odd number chapters starting with 9.  
>The story was placed in a stasis of sorts while I worked on Just-World. As stated in the last chapter, there will be 14 chapters. Chapter 13 is almost complete right now and I kinda know what I'm doing with chapter 14(?) I don't. But I have a general idea. I'm also batting the idea of maybe doing 3 or 4 oneshots (this is stressed) after the story is done. We'll see how things go.<br>Thanks to everyone who reviewed/favorited/alerted and read. Also to those of you who've been loyally waiting for an update. I'll try not to keep it so long this time. But like I said chapter 13 isn't done yet so I need to bide my time. _

Illegitimate

Chapter 11

Party Favors

One morning when he wakes up it's a month before Charlotte's first birthday. He has no idea where the time went. Of course it's not wasted time, but he's mournful she isn't a baby anymore. She isn't the light, soft bundle who nestled quietly in his arm while he watched hockey games. The one who huddled unknowingly against his chest in her sleep like a little tree frog.

Now she's starting to walk. Reaches out chubby hands on the ends of thins wrists to him. Rests with an elbow cranked on the coffee table casually like she's in a bar. She's never going to a bar. He will burn her I.D. Jules walks with her; half crouched while leading her with two hands like how his mom taught him to skate. He's going to teach Charlotte how to skate. Sometimes he'll be sitting on the couch going over the bills or relaxing with a hanging hand and she'll find it. Same hand around the same finger, same bewildered staring expression. Twinkles her stubby fingers at him and exclaims in broken syllables until his already faltering resistance becomes nonexistent. She always ends up in his lap.

He sits on the couch, grumbling at bills, because the money from his apartment diffused like particles into the air. Some for house repairs, some for Charlotte's university fund, some for a certain ring, and some for a rainy day. Or two if he has it his way. Once he groaned and slammed his hand down on the table in frustration. Charlotte made the same guttural grunt as him and slapped her palm down beside his. Giggled and clapped because she thought it was a game. He kissed her cheek and put the bills away, because they didn't matter anymore.

She calls him 'Da'. He and Jules never did have a concrete conversation concerning what they should groom Charlotte to call him. It just happened naturally. He's not sure how. Maybe the TV shows or movies she watches with two stable parental figures. Maybe the people in public who state, "She looks more like mommy than daddy." Maybe because the first few nights after bringing her home he inadvertently referred to Jules as 'your Mother' or 'Mommy' and Jules started reciprocating. Maybe because after getting to spend more time alone with Charlotte, he started referring to himself as 'Daddy'.

Before she was born, the idea of Steve's biological child calling him 'Dad' or 'Da' was a little unnerving. Pretty uncomfortable for him. After he held her that first time she became his. Fuck Steve. He's the one who took care of her prenatally. The one who was there for her birth. The one who signed the certificate. The one who would do anything for his little girl. He adopted her the moment she adopted him. It's not even a logical adoption. She was always meant to be his daughter.

She's a little less than a year old, but has an innate ability to bring out the best in people. Especially the Team. Instantly bonded with Wordy, who has a second identity with baby girls. Stares Ed down until he finally chuckles and says she needs to become a negotiator. Becomes a hectic ball of excitement around Spike who proclaims, "Uncle Spike needs to get his baby on." But she's the best with Sarge.

Work becomes tough. A mother tries to use her own kid for a human shield and it gets to him. He can't deal with familial hot calls anymore. They hit too close because he has a gorgeous girlfriend and a beautiful baby girl at home and if anything happens to either of them, he's sure he would lose it. Not just be inconsolable. He'd dive into insanity and a furious rampage. He's starting to understand why half the subjects act the way they do.

While he's leaving the locker room he checks on Sarge, who wasn't able to save the mom. Suicide by cop. Not him thank God, he was Sierra Two. But the Boss feels the impact of the loss almost in the strength the son does. Sarge sits at the table in the briefing room, head bowed and jaw set. His hand supports his chin as his eyes flicker over the paperwork, the transcripts from the hot call. Only when he takes three more steps does he notice her hidden form ensconced in his free arm.

Charlotte sits in Sarge's lap. She's wearing a little white dress with red flowers on it, white leggings and little boots. Her dark brown hair has a headband with a moderate sized red bow. She's absolutely adorable. His boss continues to go over the reports while she stays patiently in his lap, sometimes glancing at the papers like she does the bills at home when he has to figure out how to pay them.

Sarge grunts in frustration, switches his hand from his chin to cover his mouth as he mulls over something. Charlotte catches the descent in his mood. Her small head tilting up to examine him with large, round questioning eyes. She shifts in his arm and places a hand softly on his cheek. She's going through a small obsession with cheeks and noses. She never hits, only touches. A tiny fingertip pushing into his cheek when he gets home. It's enough to make him forget any bad day.

"Hey." Jules appears at the end of the hallway. Her coat and a tinier, pinker one draping over her arms.

"Hey Sweetheart." He grins and kisses her cheek when she stops beside him. She's still not big on the public displays of affection within the SRU. "When did you get here?"

"Ten minutes ago?" Crossing her arms she hugs the coats tighter to her body as they watch Sarge tickle Charlotte's side. Then sit her on the table and fix one of her boots which is coming loose. He talks to her with such intensity while stringing the laces, and she listens with her mouth a little open.

"Just come for a visit?"

"Actually, she went insane looking for you today."

"Really?"

"Oh yeah." She laughs and shuffles on her feet. The coats rustle. "Woke up from her nap and just kept calling 'Da'. I told her you were at work and she wouldn't hear it. She went into every room of the house. She started crying for you and it was heartbreaking."

He can't even describe the feeling. Just knowing she needs him as much as he needs her. They love each other in hugs and kisses and bedtime stories. But she misses him when he's gone. It's why the interior of his locker is collaged with pictures of her and Jules. It means something. "Sarge scooped her up?"

"Well I had to go down to the fourth floor to confirm a few things for when I start working from home next month."

"Did you take a gun?"

She rolls her eyes at his slightly exaggerated concern, but then the small grin falls from her face. Her vision turns back towards Sarge who notices them with a wave, and approaches with their daughter pressing on his cheek and pulling faces. "Today made me realize how lucky we are. Charlotte and I, to have you."

His fingers entwine with hers. "We're all lucky."

"Da." Charlotte's lips pout as she detects him. Her placating hand falls from Sarge's cheek to reach for him. Tiny fingers wiggling through the air, feet in mid jog. She's still light in his arms, like she has the bones of a bird. But she hugs him like a monkey. Arms around his neck, legs wrapping his chest, cheek squished against his.

A few weeks later she has her first birthday party and doesn't understand what's happening. The candles on the cake scare her. The noise makers scare her. The music scares her. The streamers scare her. She spends the majority of the time crying in a slanted party hat. Everyone shares the same laughing 'aww', because they think it's funny and cute. He and Jules don't because her trauma is genuine. He can tell by the way she buries her face, her wet cheek, in his shoulder for protection. The party is short but she plays a little with Wordy's girls while the Team destroys the decorations.

Everyone leaves early. Wordy's daughter, Lilly, gets sick and vomits cake into the toy box. Spike has a date. Ed and Sophie have dinner plans. Sarge offers to help them clean, but they decline and slowly chip away at the gutted interior of the living room. By the time they finish it's after Charlotte's bedtime. The mixture of overexcitement from presents and people, the lurking fear from birthday decorations, and not being in her crib on schedule has her cranky. She falls asleep with her head cradled against Jules chest after a calming bath and a single bedtime story.

He's already in bed when Jules collapses beside him. He's done back to back twelve hour shifts and this was more exhausting.

"Sam, turn off your light."

"Sweetheart, I couldn't move if I wanted to."

"Seriously?" There's an angry sigh and a shift in the bed as she sits up again. "I just put our daughter to sleep and you're making me get up to turn off a light that's right beside you?"

"I'll get the next one."

There's no sound or movement for a minute and he thinks he's fallen asleep, but then she sighs again, "When she wakes up in the morning, you're getting her."

"Fine."

He's still on top of the covers because he couldn't muster the strength to crawl under them. Her knee presses into his thigh, and she leans over him to flick off the lamp. Her smooth legs trickle past his fingers. Her fragrant hair tickles at his neck and chin as she braces herself against his shoulder with one shaky hand. Her torso presses against his diagonally and suddenly he's up.

Before she can extinguish the light his arms seize her, straighten her, startle her as he sits up and forces her to accompany him.

"Sam." It's an aggravated grunt.

He doesn't kiss her lips, because he knows she won't respond much, instead his lips course over her cheeks, down her chin, fall to her neck and then her chest. Walk along her collarbone before they dip between her breasts. His hand traces the curves of her body, down her back, her hips, her ass and over her thighs.

"Sam." It's a little breathless, but she places a hand on his chest to force him back. He raises his knees behind her, forcing her to topple forward. The action creates a delicious friction. She moans as his mouth finally greets hers and she kisses him back with as much fervor.

His hands dip underneath her long nightshirt. Fingers dance over her hips, kneading a moment and then skim up to her ribs. She grinds down against him, finding the stiffness in his boxers and breathes against his neck, "I swear to God, if you don't turn off the light after this—"

As he gropes at her shirt, strangled cries come from down the hall. Their motions slow, the pace he set coming to an immediate halt as his knees settle against the bed and he inhales sharply in discomfort. Jules dismounts him and places a chaste kiss on his cheek, rubbing it in with the pad of her thumb.

"Some other time." She pauses at the doorway and adds, "This light better be off when I get back."

He sighs, not angry, just disappointed. They haven't had sex in almost three months and it's not from his lack of trying. He works long and draining hours; she takes care of Charlotte all day. When there is time, they're both exhausted.

"Sam." He can barely hear Jules above the screaming. It scares him, her voice is pitchy. Frantic and panicked. He struggles to pull on his sweatpants, hops on one foot pulling them up down the angled hallway. Is in the nursery before he can be called for again.

Charlotte wails against Jules' shoulder. Her face is scarlet and shiny with moisture. Her lips, the outline of her mouth stained brown from watery vomit which is covering her chest and her bedding. All cheese pizza and birthday cake.

"Sam." Jules rocks their daughter. One arm scooped underneath her bum, and the other cradling the base of her head. "She's burning up." She shakes her head and rustles a hand through the clumping, curling hair on the back of Charlotte's head. "She's burning up."

"Okay. It's okay." He reaches to take her, but Jules twists away. Hesitates. It's the first time she's ever outwardly denied him their daughter. It hurts. It hurts like a knife digging upwards in his gut, hitting his ribcage and embedding there for the rest of his life. He pretends not to notice, though his fingers twitch. Without showing his reservations he reaches for Charlotte again. Doesn't say anything because he can't. Jules nods and hands the toddler to him. She is on fire. A tiny, sweating, crying mess. "Go get changed. Get me a shirt. Get her bag."

Jules nods again. Fingers bunching to hide her mouth as she watches him try to calm Charlotte. "Jules?" His voice is gentle and he touches her arm softly. The last thing they need now is an argument, is to blame each other when they both blame themselves.

"Sorry." She barely croaks before scurrying out of the room.

He waits a second or two, just swaying Charlotte. It's what got her to sleep as a baby. But this isn't just her being fussy at bedtime. This is her being sick. She cries harder, pounds her fists against his bare chest.

"Hey Sweetie." He whispers close to her ear, his hand rubbing up and down her back. Untangles her fist and holds her small hand in his palm. Kisses her temple softly. "It's okay. You're going to be okay."

Her puppy pajamas are covered in vomit and he lies her down on the changing table to peel them off. The pajamas are made for the winter weather and only insulate her feverish skin. Instead he pulls out a lighter onesie with pink and blue stripes. Guides her thrashing arms and legs through the appropriate holes. He rushes her into the bathroom where he washes off her face, while she battles him. Arms propelling, legs treading invisible water, neck wrenching her head left than right.

Jules reappears dressed. Has Charlotte's diaper bag, the car keys and a shirt for him. He exchanges their daughter for the clothing and keys. Takes the stairs blindly while pulling on a sweatshirt.

He speeds like a maniac. Jules doesn't notice or doesn't care, because they're both preoccupied. She rides in the back with Charlotte. Strokes her face, holds her hand and whispers soothing words although their daughter is still screaming. It reminds him of the first time they drove home from the hospital together. How he wouldn't go above twenty. How people were walking down the street faster than he was driving.

He drops them off at the emergency entrance, tells Jules to let the nurses know he's coming in. Assumes a toddler with a fever is a pretty big emergency. It's a big emergency to him. But after finding a parking space in the lot down the street, paying the lump sum and running through two traffic lights which flash authoritative hands against him, he's in the waiting room and he recognizes her cry upon entry.

"My daughter is sick."

"Triage order is set up by arrival or importance. She'll have to wait her turn."

"She has a high fever and—"

"She'll have to wait her turn."

So he sits silent and upset beside Jules, who is silent but terrified. Charlotte's head lolls heavily against her breasts. Eyes wrinkled shut with omnipresent tears like when she was first born. Wet face permeating Jules' loose t-shirt which he now recognizes as his. Tiny fists gripping at the hanging material as her body shifts in perpetual discomfort.

Other people in the waiting room begin to stare at them. When Charlotte doesn't cease her incessant sobs, they glare. So he glares back. Ready to bring them up on fantastical charges of child endangerment if they say or do anything about his daughter.

"She won't stop." Jules voice is lost in the sea of screams, growing and encompassing all like a series of waves. She bounces their daughter on her knee but it only results in giving her a hiccup. "Sam, she won't stop."

"It's going to be okay." One of his hands is on her lower back; the other is on top of hers on Charlotte's back as they both rub to pacify the sickness.

There's a brief pause in her cries and they both remain motionless in case their movements stir up the tears again. But then the peace is broken by a spray of tacky vomit shooting from Charlotte's mouth and onto Jules' shoulder and into her hair. This only increases the frequency and volume of the crying and he snaps.

While Jules cleans off her shoulder and Charlotte's face with one of the cloths from the diaper bag, he approaches the nurse again. "My daughter just threw up again, she's running a fever, she's crying so hard she can't breathe."

The nurse leans her body to check over his shoulder as if she can't hear the crying. As if she needs to see Charlotte's red face to verify his story. But then grimly nods. "All right. Come back."

They're led to a common area with a single gurney sanctioned off by a privacy curtain. He volunteers to hold Charlotte, but Jules refuses to let her go. Sits on the gurney and faces their daughter forward so he can entertain her by wiggling her feet, but it doesn't work. Fat tears slide down her irritated cheeks and fall from her chin. Full lips pout. Big round eyes catch his in a single flash and stare at him sorrowfully.

Jules refuses to relinquish Charlotte several times once the doctor arrives and he has to slowly explain the benefits of having a doctor hold their sick daughter. She nods in a weak comprehension. Slowly he pries away fussing Charlotte and passes her to the doctor. The stranger only boils more discomfort within her and she reaches for him. Claws for him.

"I'm right here." He tells her because she's not even opening her eyes through the tears anymore. Just crying and screaming and reaching for him in the darkness.

The doctor examines Charlotte, takes her temperature, looks in her ears and nose, and prods her stomach. She fights him. Grimaces, kicks, punches with little baby fists. After a few minutes he declares she has the stomach flu. It's caused her to become dehydrated and the first step to remedy that is an IV. Finally he gets his daughter back. She's more traumatized than any first birthday party could ever make her. She clings to him, and he holds her still while they start the central line. Holds her pale, skinny arm out because her same hand is around his same finger. The whole incident nearly destroys Jules who tries her best to keep her calm voice from trembling as she strokes their daughter's hair.

They're forced to stay overnight and shipped up to the PICU, the most depressing place on the planet. The hospital is a dangerous place to be, the PICU is the hell of the hospital. A complete level of just sick and terminally ill children. Charlotte settles in a sterilized hospital crib with a teddy bear pattern decorating the interior. She wears only a new diaper and an IV so her temperature drops safely. Jules trembles beside him, and he pulls her closer as they watch their daughter drift into a restless sleep.

An hour passes. Then two. Neither of them even twitches. They don't want to wake her. Don't want to cause more pain. Finally he nudges Jules softly with his shoulder and gives her hand a squeeze. "You should go home."

"What?" Hand drops from her mouth and her eyes are bloodshot and empty like all the emotions have been kicked out of her. He knows. He feels the exact same way.

"Go home and have a shower. It shouldn't take that long."

"I'm not leaving Sam."

"You're covered in baby vomit."

"I'm not leaving."

"Jules, it's in your hair."

"I can't, if anything happens to her—"

"I'll be here." He holds the side of her face and gently places a kiss onto her cheek. Watches her eyes flutter closed from fatigue or from the need of reassurance and hopefully finding it. "Nothing is going to happen to her." She doesn't answer him, and he wonders if it's a trust issue. Remembers when she wouldn't let him hold Charlotte earlier. Knows it's not him, but just lingering pieces of the past. They're a family now, and she needs to trust him. He would never let anything happen to either of them. "I'll make sure of it."

"Okay," she mumbles. Applies the early morning routine to step soundlessly through the room and retrieve her purse. He holds the car keys out for her, and both her hands encircle his. Hold his so tight; the touch and the tension betray the semi-constructed expression she still wears. "Please Sam, take care of her."

Kissing her softly on the lips, his fingers run over hers, reinforce and support hers. "I promise you Jules. I won't let anything happen to her."

Charlotte sleeps softly in the crib even in the absence of her mother. It's not an idea Jules is willing to accept without coercion just yet. His daughter's chest rises and falls without a subsequent sound, and her balled fist rests near her pouting lips.

For a little more than an hour, he doesn't move. His feet start to feel numb, then his shins from lack of motion. His hands wring around the crib railing for a noiseless support. Everything is in a precarious balance right now from how Jules left it, and he fears leaving the spot he was left in would disrupt the stability of the room.

Jules returns in impeccable timing factoring in the shower and the drive. He knows she sped. She is also missing her winter coat and there is a path of dribbling water trailing her into the room.

"How is she?" Hushed whisper urgent as she tiptoes over to the crib. Settles when she observes Charlotte still peacefully asleep.

Grabbing her icy bicep, he feels confident enough to take a few steps away from the crib. "Where's your coat?"

"What?" Her eyes dart over her bare arms and then check over her back like it might have fallen on the floor. "I don't know?" She shakes her head and shrugs. "I forgot it?"

"Your hair is soaked." Gestures to a garbage can in the corner of the room much better equated at catching water.

She wrenches her arm away. "It's fine."

"You're leaking water all over the floor. You're going to catch a cold."

Relenting, she follows him, wet hand in wet hand. He gathers her moist hair in a slick, drooling ponytail and squeezes it out over the garbage can for her. The water doesn't spill on the floor. No unnecessary hazards or messes. Part of being a parent.

While she collects her hair up into a bun, he retrieves his coat. Drapes it around her shoulders and it enrobes her. She groups the open sides and sighs into the collar. They stand abstractly loyal beside the crib all night long. Watch the blank sky through the window diffuse to navy, then reds and oranges of the early city sky. He holds her, arms wrapped around her waist. His coat is so big on her it feels like a sleeping bag, like the G.I. Joe one he had when he was younger until Natalie threw up in it.

Sometimes he gets too sentimental, can't be strong for her in the moment like she needs him to be and his grip inadvertently tightens. When it's really bad he ducks his head into the side of her neck and closes his eyes. Pretends they're at home and he's relishing in the minutes before the rambunctious, now one-year-old shakes the gate on her crib and cries for them. Jules knows. She understands him. Snakes a hand in comfort at an unusual angle up his neck, over his jaw, his ear and into his hair. Puzzle piece perfect. Cogs in a machine.

Charlotte leaves the hospital the next day at 5pm. He and Jules don't leave the room unless it's to get small, overpriced cups of horrible hospital coffee, or to piss said cups of coffee out. A little before noon, Charlotte rouses with some familiar sounds and in a picture of perfection sits up and rubs a hand at one of her tired eyes. The lashes clump and then fan over the radiant, calming stormy green.

Jules cradles her, sways on the verge of laughter and sobs. Clutches their daughter to her chest and kisses her cheeks, telling her how worried she was. Charlotte listens to her words like they're an epic tale passed down from generations. Eyes alert, mouth with twelve tiny teeth wide in awe. When Jules stops talking she points to the IV sticking out of her arm. "Dis?"

When the doctor removes the IV he distracts Charlotte. She's sitting in Jules lap and he has one of her toys from her diaper bag. Her favorite one. A little pink dog he bought her on a whim because she's his and he wants to deliver the world to her. Tiny teeth gleam as she giggles wildly. Pink Puppy does a jaunt up her legs, sniffs at her feet, her hands, her nose and she grabs it and hugs it. Doesn't even notice the bandage or pain on her arm.

Before handing her over, Jules places one last kiss on her cheek, though Charlotte is still distracted by Pink Puppy. He gets the honor of carrying her out of the hospital, feels like they're in a parade and Charlotte is Santa or the Pope, or in simpler times an astronaut who just reached the moon and back. Her little head rests perfectly underneath his chin and her fingers fold against the collar of his sweater because Jules is still wearing his coat.

They have to pick up an antibiotic for her. He offers to drop them off at home and go to the pharmacy, but Jules refuses to be separated from either of them. They're a unit now, moving on less than an hour's sleep through the narrow pharmacy aisles. Charlotte perching on his one arm, his other hand grasping Jules'.

At 8pm after a modest supper, they all pass out on the bed. Charlotte situated between them, just as she did sometimes when she was newborn and neither of them could stand to put her three feet away in the bassinet. Pink Puppy is in an unconscious chokehold and her other hand grasps his finger. The same hand, the same finger.

Appropriately, he's the last one into bed. Across from him, on her side, Jules is struggling to stay awake. "Did you lock the front door?"

"Yeah." Fingers snap off his bedside lamp. But hers is still on. Without a word he gets out of bed and turns her lamp off.

"Did you get her medicine for the morning ready?"

Climbing back into bed he leans over and kisses her forehead. "Everything is ready for the morning."

"Sippy cup?" With the stomach flu they're supposed to keep Charlotte overly hydrated. She never liked bottles. Never exclusively used one. When she became old enough they gave her a sippy cup. But when Jules stopped breast feeding two months ago, the cup took priority and messes increased tenfold.

He lightly kisses Charlotte's head and she lets out a small sigh in her sleep. He answers in a whisper so he doesn't disturb her, "It's on my bedside table."

Jules doesn't answer him, and her eyes are closed so he assumes she's asleep. Her hospital dried hair spread haphazardly across her pillow. Her hand rests on Charlotte's side. He smiles, exhausted by relieved.

"I love you."

His grin widens as he adjusts the blankets around Jules' shoulders and lets them dip so they don't cover Charlotte. "I love you too."

* * *

><p><em>Next Chapter - Shit goes down, both at the SRU and with the BraddockCallaghan household. It was going well, you didn't think it would be that easy did you? _


	12. Backs and Fronts

_A/N:Hey Guys. This chapter is dedicated to SYurri because she made me an awesome gif set of my favorite scene from Attention Shoppers. You can tell so much stuff from that one see. SO MUCH STUFF.  
>Anyway, I did my normal read throughs, but I have a lingering feeling a few mistakes crept through. So don't complain to me about them. Just take them like wounds of war.<br>Also I love how everyone just assumes the complete worse when I announce 'shit goes down'. I've said it every chapter. And shit doesn't have to be bad. It fertilizes. That'll make more sense at the end of the chapter.  
>The story is complete now by the way. And at least five one shots are in the work. One shots because I don't want to end up doing another huge ass story.<br>Thanks to everyone who reviewed/alerted/favorited and of course, read. I'm glad you guys are still enjoying the story and I know you'll like this chapter. And weddings don't happen in this story. Otherwise I'd have to change the title. _

__Illegitimate

Chapter 12

Backs and Fronts

One of the main rules at the SRU is to keep home life and work life separate. Private and profession are different spheres entirely, but he can't seem to keep his from colliding. Maybe it's because Jules is a part of both. She stops by with Charlotte once a week to submit a small forest's worth of paper in neat files to the fourth floor. He insists on escorting them because he never knows when another disgruntled ex-employee might return. Plays dumb when Jules rolls her eyes at him. Wears the cool pants as he holds his daughter up and lets her press every button in the elevator twice.

Maybe it's because he sees them everywhere. They dress the inside of his locker. Pictures of Charlotte from the last thirteen months. Jules with her. With him. One of her pregnant with Charlotte. But he also witnesses them in obscurities. In every applicable case. Sometimes when he thinks he might not be able to pull the trigger, he imagines it's Jules or Charlotte down there with the maniac and finger muscles turn smooth as butter. Conscience squeaky clean.

Sometimes Team One has to deal with weird calls. Not the usual suicide or hostage situations. But things like protection detail or scheduled drug raids. They're infrequent but mess up his routine. This one is happening at two in the morning. It's nice because he gets to spend the day with his family. Slides a hand into the back pocket of Jules' jeans and nuzzles her neck while informing her he'll cook the eggs. Helps Charlotte on the playground equipment in the park. She can climb monkey bars because of him and squeals in delight, tiny legs kicking. Walks down the sidewalk with them, entwines his fingers with Jules' as they push the stroller together.

But he also has to go to sleep in the middle of the day. Light streaming through the window. Toddler daughter trying to be quiet and sneaking a peak through the closed bedroom door more than once. When he gets up to piss because he just can't hold it anymore and he still has a good three hours if he hurries and falls back asleep, it's time for Charlotte to go to bed. She wants to sleep in their bed, so he ends up napping with her curled up in his arm. One arm and one leg thrown onto his chest, his hand on her back to monitor her breathing. Before he leaves for the SRU, Jules kisses him goodbye, hesitates on letting go of his hand and tells him to come home safe.

The raid goes almost as planned. All their raids are almost fully successful. An informant, who happens to be a vice cop turned drug addict, rats out the time two minutes before the raid so they're forced to charge into the warehouse a little less than prepared. It's sort of like catching mice. Scared, running mice all hopped up on manmade drugs. This time it's coke.

On the second floor, he and Wordy are clearing out abandoned offices in what used to be a textile factory. Grabbing guys, giving the ones who fight back a good shake before slamming them into the wall and cuffing them. The upstairs is dark, the windows broken by vandals, then high school kids for fun. A cool November wind blows through the serrated edges of frosted glass.

He's stalking, rifle drawn and ready by some filing cabinets when the guy comes from behind him. It's not as bad as the CN Tower gift shop. He figured all the glass on the floor would lead to an obvious weapon, but no, the guy uses a pipe or something. He doesn't really know. Hits him twice in the back and then runs to the door where Wordy clotheslines him to the ground.

He was wearing his vest, which is bulletproof and probably did something to save something. He doesn't know what. Just knows the EMPs check out his bare back in the flashing red and blue lights of their rigs. Tell him nothing is broken but he'll be tender for a few days. From somewhere, the memory of Jules hitting the Eaton's Center creeps into his mind and he wonders if she felt like this. How did she lift her arms? How did he just let her?

Sarge checks with the paramedics who repeat that he's fine, but he gets a day off for recuperation anyway. He doesn't want it. Doesn't want to appear feeble. Went down after two hits with a pipe, but then again who wants a man on their team with poor mobility?

In the blue dawn he arrives home. Slams his car door and a painfully brings his bag upstairs. Charlotte is sleeping in her crib. Since she was born, every night he echoes the same action. Tenderly places a hand on her back to supervise her breathing, keeps it stationary for three or four repetitions until he knows she's healthy and just asleep. He's done this since she was in a bassinet three feet away from him.

An icy light engulfs the bedroom when he cracks open the door. Jules is sitting up in the bed, her back resting against a pillow, arm draped over her knee. Cotton sheet skirting around her angled legs in the waning moonlight. "You're home early."

"What are you still doing up?" Sets his gym bag on the ground, tries not to groan at the dull flame licking at his muscles and bones.

She holds up her cell phone, which was on the bed beside her. "I was worried."

"Jules, I'm fine."

"I wasn't there to watch your back, Braddock."

"Funny you put it that way."

"Huh?"

He shakes his head. Lips pursed because she's going to overreact. Overreacts to everything that happens to him or Charlotte. Paper cuts get antiseptic spray and a Band-Aid. His too. When they go outside in the summer, like last year to watch the Canada Day fireworks, she covered both him and Charlotte in bug repellant. But she doesn't pay any attention to herself.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, he rolls the hem of his long-sleeved shirt until he successfully yanks it over his head. Tries to toss it to his bag, but his throw is weak and it ends up discarded on the ground.

"Oh my God, Sam." Her legs fling over the side of the bed, fingers trace empty shapes over what he assumes are bruises. Retreating a second, she clicks on the lamp. "Oh my God."

"It's fine."

"Have you seen it?"

"No but—"

"Tell me you got it checked out. "

Her voice ripples, the hidden effect of sympathy, compassion, understanding, love. "Paramedics checked it out on the scene."

"How did this happen?" Warm breath hits his back as cold fingers tickle down the periphery of the bruise. He can tell because they walk the line of pleasure and pain. Where the skin no longer aches.

"You're not—"

"How?" Another hot burst.

"A guy hit me in the back with a metal pipe."

"Oh my God." Fingers dabble lower down his sides until her arms slowly loop around his stomach. Her lips press against his ear as she softly embraces him. Feels the familiar and relaxing form of her body flush against him. "How does shit like this always happen to you?"

"It doesn't always happen."

"You got your face slashed, Sam." To prove a point pushes plump lips against the incorporeal scar. A white line on a white face. A simple laugh line.

"Bad things happen to the rest of the guys too. You just don't see it."

"I worry about you Sam, because I love you."

Ignoring the blazes in his shoulders, the bottom of his neck, his upper back, he faces her. Feels his knee push against the firm muscle of her inner thigh. His hand falls to her side where her ribs become scarce. Where four years earlier his life was literally ripped to shreds. Knows how she feels because it's how he did and does. They kiss, meet halfway because it's mutual, it's out of love, it's desired.

They haven't had sex in four months. Not from lack of desire or affection. But exhaustion and fatigue. When they did get a chance it would have been rushed and they both agreed there was no point when they couldn't enjoy each other. It wasn't worth being together if the whole act was timed. Finally they can take it slow. He doesn't know what made it difference. If the innate worry they have for each other had to unite, or if they had to be awake at 4:33am, but they can finally take their time.

He lowers her back slowly; hand around her waist, snaking underneath the nightshirt now riding a little high on her hips. Fingers running over cool, smooth skin he hasn't seen, let alone touched in ages. Her toes touch his ankles as she sinks into the bed. Lick up his calves through his jeans and hook at his waist. Her fingers dance over his back, careful of the bruises as his lips progress over her skin, eliciting a hushed moan when he reaches her neck. Her shirt is shucked like a corn husk, billows to the ground. He reveals in the memory turned current event of her body against his. The refreshing coolness of her skin mingling with his aflame.

Daylight pours through the window, when he reaches into a recognizable, yet underused drawer. The bedside table really having no use lately except for a stable entity to hold the lamp. He grabs a condom, which might actually have a fine layer of dust on it, and reads the expiry date before tearing it open.

Afterwards, when they're both coming down from the euphoric high, she reaches across the bed and teases a piece of his hair. Curls it around her forefinger. "God, I missed that."

"Me too."

"We should do it more often."

"I might need more convincing."

His lips part against the protruding bones in her chest and tongue flicks at the thin sheen of sticky sweat over pale skin. Her chest bumps his when she chuckles. When she moves an arm to flick his ear, he feels it coming through her collarbone.

They do have sex more often. Way more often. He doesn't exactly do the math because he's not a bragging guy and the only people he'd have to brag to would be the Team and that would be awkward. But it's nice. Not because it's sex and it's with Jules. But because he gets to be with her. Really be with her. He sneaks into the shower with her every so often. Rips back the curtain. The first time she yelled in surprise. The second time she gasped. The third time she gave him shit and said to get in already because it was getting cold. That's all the invitation he needs. Home is a paradise; it keeps his mind off work.

Team One ends up getting called in on a domestic abuse case. It's the usual suspect of a big, hulking guy who hates his job, his frail wife and their two kids. The kids, a boy and a girl are hidden between where the family's two couches conjoin. They end up getting the guy without a kill shot which is always good. But the case upsets everyone. Ed whose son Clark is going through rough times with the cliques in high school. Spike who probably thinks of his nephew. Sarge because he knows what the other side could have looked like. Wordy who has Shelly and his three little girls. He thinks of Jules, what she would have gone through, possible did in The Hat while not living with her grandfather. Thinks of Charlotte. She hides between the couches when he and Jules argue.

The locker room is somber after the hot call. Spike doesn't crack any jokes. None of them speak very much. No one suggests going out to The Goose. They just want to get home to their lives and respective families. Confirm everything is domestic bliss.

He sits in his SUV for a few minutes. Stares in the rearview mirror at the brown and pink car seat fastened into the backseat. Almost all the important decisions in his life have been made in an instant. Joining the army, coming to Toronto, falling in love with Jules, when he first kissed her, becoming a dad. Today is one of those days and he doesn't drive home. Not directly home. First he stops at a jewelry store.

Then another. Then another. Then he starts to think maybe they're not supposed to be married, because he can't find a ring that would look suitable on Jules' finger. One she would actually wear. But then, on the forth store, which he almost doesn't go into because she's phoning him, he sees it. It's perfect, not flashy but not cheap in appearance. A diamond guarded by two smaller ones on a white gold band. In an instant he buys it. Hides it under the front seat of his SUV until he knows the right time.

The vehicle slows to a crawl outside the house. The garbage can is already on the curb and he groans. It's garbage day tomorrow and he forgot bring it out. It's the one thing he does to donate to the upkeep of the house. Parking his car in the puddle riddled driveway he scurries to the house, hands clasped over his head.

Opening the door, he finds Charlotte standing directly on the other side, holding Pink Puppy in her arms and watching him curiously.

"Hi Charlotte."

"Da." She squeezes her arms around his calf and he swings her up and into his arms. She kisses his wet cheek and contorts her face at the wet touch of it.

"Sam?" Jules calls from upstairs.

"Yeah, I'm here." Charlotte presses a hand to his cheek, grinning at him. He moves her hand to his lips and kisses it loudly. Her laughter turns into a squeal as she claps her hands, and hugs him. "Sorry I—"

"Where the hell were you?" Jules skids to a halt on the landing to glare at him. "I phoned you, I phoned everyone on the goddamn team."

"I just—" Wiggles out of his shoes and immediately steps into a puddle of rainwater which soaks through his soak. "I had to do something."

"And you couldn't even phone me back?"

"I'm sorry Jules, I didn't—"

"Whatever." She interrupts and stomps down the rest of the stairs returning to the kitchen and the disaster of pots and pans within. "I just started supper because I didn't know when you'd be back."

"Jules."

"Please," she groans at the sink while waiting for a pot to fill with water. "Just play with Charlotte, she's been asking for you all day."

"Yeah." He nods and sets his daughter down on one of the couch cushions. She grins up at him and holds out her arms to be picked up again. "In a second Sweetie, let Daddy take care of his smelly clothes."

He pecks her on the tip of her nose and she giggles. Then spies on him from over the back of the couch as he jumps the stairs two at the time for her. Doesn't stop his pace until he's in the washroom. Has to toss his work clothes into the hamper. The wet black sock, from his foot escapes the pile and drops on the ground. With his stride, he boots it between the toilet and the sink. With a groan, he bends down, knees digging into the tiled floor, and blindly fishes out the sock along with a piece of paper.

A pristine, new piece of paper which is still folded from the packaging it was in before. A piece of paper with factory written instructions on it in both English and French. A piece of paper with very simple steps for very simple results. Simple results which alter futures in an instant. His future, Jules future, Charlotte's future. There's no dust on the paper and it's not waterlogged. He wonders how long it's been back there. How long since it drifted off the counter and onto the floor when Jules was in a scramble.

He abandons the sock, leaves his work clothes scattered in the bathroom and walks in a trance down the stairs. Charlotte still watches him, hands gripping the back of the couch, eyes peering like an owl. She wears a sly smile. Her mother's smile.

"Jules, what's this?" He places the instructions down on the counter and slides them towards her, like he's written an illicit sum on the piece of paper and they're in negotiations. He doesn't know why he found it where he did, if she left it there on purpose or not. He's starting to second guess simple things now.

With a slight smile trying to erase her prior attitude, she rubs floured hands on her apron. Leaves phantom handprints on her thighs. Thighs he's been touching and tasting an awful lot these last five months. Condoms are only so effective, he's not sure the percentage, but he's sure they've surpassed the denominator. The paper crinkles when she drags it across the counter. When she views the same set of instructions he did, her face deletes any emotions she might have. It makes her reaction impossible to tell.

"Well?"

She replaces the instructions and turns her back to him. "Not now Sam."

"What?" He crumples the paper in his hand, feels the material become pulpy with his own sweat. He could understand if they were at the SRU, if they were grocery shopping, or even if they were in a restaurant. But they're in a house. Their house. Their home. With their daughter. His temper reaches a boiling point it hasn't felt in months, in years. Not since she wished him out of her hospital room when Charlotte gave her preterm labor pains. "Is this too public for you?"

Rolling her eyes at his reaction, she tosses a towel over her shoulder and plants her hands on her hips. Before she replies, there's a call from the living room. "Da?"

"In a minute Charlotte." Doesn't turn towards his daughter when he responds. His eyes burn into Jules', he's not backing down. "Did you take a pregnancy test?"

"Sam." She shakes her head, removes potatoes from a burner because they threaten to spit their starch all over the stovetop. "After supper okay? Go and play with Charlotte. She really—"

"No. Now Jules."

Groaning with aggravation, she sets the pot back on the burner and lowers the heat. "Fine. Yes, in the five minutes I had to myself I took a pregnancy test."

"When?"

"This morning." Her hands move to the back burner where gravy heats in a smaller pot. "I was going to tell you after supper so you could spend some time with—" As she turns towards him, her arm knocks the pot full of potatoes, overflowing a dash of near boiling water onto the back of her hand. In the same instant her hand retracts into a cradle against her chest. "Fuck."

He swings around the island, directing her towards him with a finger in the rung of her jeans. "Get it under cold water."

"I know what to—Ah." Her barefoot stamps repeatedly into the tiled floor as the icy water streams over her hand.

"Mama?" Charlotte balances her elbows on the arm of the couch, craning her neck to peer into the action enveloped kitchen.

"Stay there." His voice is harsh, demanding and he still forces Jules wrist under the water. It has to stay there for at least five minutes to reduce the swelling.

"Mama's fine, Sweetie." Jules uses the same craning method to speak to their daughter, which is probably how Charlotte deciphered and adopted it. She shoves his shoulder with hers and in a hushed voice she adds. "Don't yell at her Sam. She's been looking forward to seeing you all day and you've just been stomping around getting angry."

He rotates her hand under the tap ensuring the water falls over it in the opposite direction so the swelling dissolves to the highest degree. His fingers have long since gone numb. "Well you've been taking secret pregnancy tests and boiling your hand."

On the couch, Charlotte flops back down onto the seat and lets out the softest weep. They both watch their daughter faintly sob, whether from misunderstanding, or confusion, or from his harsh voice. Jules yanks her hand away from his, patting it dry with narrowing eyes. "And this is why I wanted to talk after dinner."

"Charlotte, Sweetheart, it's okay." He wipes his wet hands on his jeans, marching forward. In the living room his quiet baby girl has her hands folded in her lap. There are a few clicks in the kitchen as Jules turns off the stove.

Charlotte's green eyes shimmer. Her lower lip pouts and plumps in familiarity. She whispers a soft, "Sorry."

He lifts her off the couch, skinny, boney legs dangling. Thin arms instantly wrapping around his neck. Tiny chest hyperventilating against him in remorse. "No, it's not your fault."

Silently, as Jules explains her good health and the burn on her hand to their toddler, he agrees to keep the major issue closed until after supper. Witnesses Charlotte dip a homemade chicken finger into mashed potatoes and then corn and then laugh at her own creation. Watch her legs swing pleasantly from her booster seat. Doesn't wonder about Jules, or what happened in their bathroom earlier that morning, what showed up on that test and how much easier it would be just to go out to the can on the curb and search through it for the damn stick.

Charlotte taps her full tummy with a grin and Jules laughs while collecting the dishes. He releases the satiated toddler from her seat. She's four wiggling limbs and a big smile of tiny teeth. "Book?"

"Yeah Sweetie, just let me help Mom for one second. Go and get one." The lower level of Jules bookshelves are now dedicated to Dr. Seuss and likenesses in his field. Charlotte nods and scampers off to probably go pick out the lost dog story he can recite from memory.

With the intention of helping her clear the table, but of course with ulterior motives, he brings dishes over to where Jules stands at the sink. "It's after supper." She doesn't answer him, only continues soundlessly washing dishes. "Jules, just tell me if it's positive. Don't I deserve to know that much?"

The dishes plunge into the brown-gray water. She shakes her head, hands scrubbing at the caked on mess Charlotte's made of her plate. "I knew this was going to happen, Sam. I knew it."

"Knew what was going to happen?"

There's a solid clunk as the dish wavers to the bottom of the sink within the cloudy water. Jules rubs her hands on her pants, forgetting she's no longer wearing an apron. Wet handprints leak onto her jeans. She swipes at her bangs with the back of a glistening hand, voice uneven. "This baby is going to ruin everything."

He arches an eyebrow. "What baby?"

And click.

"This baby?" He points to her stomach and laughs aloud. "This baby? Oh my God, Jules—" Gathers up her resistant body and spins her in the kitchen.

"Sam." She shoves him back, and the smile dances off his face at one glance at hers. "This isn't a good thing."

"What? How could this not be the greatest thing in the world?" When he reaches out to touch her stomach she steps back so his fingers graze through empty air instead. "Jules?"

"We can't afford it, Sam." She sighs, one hand on her hip, the other pressing on her forehead. "Even with me doing piles of paperwork, we're barely staying afloat with Charlotte. It's not going to get any easier with another mouth to feed. I mean last time I did overtime, but—"

"So I'll do it this time." He steps forward, wanting drastically to close the space between them. "I'll work the overtime, do extra shifts, teach drills, whatever. Let me do it this time."

"Sam."

"We still have money left over from when I sold my apartment." He saved some actually. Put some away for Charlotte, put some away for the ring, and put some away for any future 'surprises'. Just didn't think they'd be creating them this quickly.

"Money is a stupid reason not to have a baby Jules, especially when there's one already waiting for you." He smiles weakly, there's less than a foot between them. Between him, Jules and their baby. Their baby. No one else's. This one is legitimate. "You have to do better than that."

Glancing over her shoulder, Jules points to Charlotte sitting on edge of the couch. The heels of her feet bouncing against the cushions. She has a large picture book of a lost dog sitting in her lap and an elated grin on her face as she examines the room patiently waiting for him. Her hair is done in little pigtails that make her look like a teddy bear. "How about her?"

"What do you mean?"

"Sam, without realizing it, you're going to treat her differently. "

"What?" And click. "What? I would never—"

"You will, because this one—" Her fingers splay over a striped shirt powdered with flower and doused in water despite her earlier apron. "This one is yours. All yours."

Reaching out, he grabs her hand, ensuring it's her unburned hand, and tugs her towards him. He points at his daughter, still waiting on the couch for him. The one without his hair, or his eyes, or his lopsided grin, or his last name. "She is all mine."

He doesn't say another thing to Jules. Leaves her in the kitchen to clean and contemplate. Spends the night beside his daughter, his firstborn, on the couch. She giggles and climbs into his lap, pink puppy situated in hers as he retells the story of how the lost dog made its way home for the umpteenth time. He tries to change the plot, but she corrects him.

Afterwards he gets her ready for bed. They're just beginning the wondrous journey into potty training. It's a little early, but Charlotte is smart enough to grasp the concept. She's afraid of the toilet. Thinks it's a monster, but he promises to never let the monster swallow her. A promise always well observed. She's put to sleep with another story, another retelling of a lost dog. He's starting to relate to that dog. He feels kind of lost himself. Transfers her limp weight from his chest to her crib and drops another kiss to her soft cheek. Wonders what it would be like with two kids. Wonders if he could get them both hyper before work and leave. Wonders if he'll even get the chance.

He meets Jules again later in bed. He's unsure whether he should sleep in the guest bedroom or take his usual spot beside her in the queen size. Hopes the last guest bedroom was predestined for someone currently residing in another, smaller guest room. He's in their bed, muscles stiff with anxiety when she sits on the edge of her side. Pauses for a moment. Sleek, gorgeous legs arching from underneath a nightshirt.

At first he thinks she's debating whether or not to spend the night with him. Seems ironic they can conceive a baby together, but can't talk about said baby. Instead she hands him a book, about being a father for a second time. Inside the front cover is a receipt which has today's date on it.

"I just don't want there to be any resentment." Her voice is soft, the kind of soft she used when Charlotte was a newborn. Something about it relaxes him and excites him at the same time. "If you treat her differently, she'll treat you differently, and then I'll treat you differently."

"Jules, I love her. I would never do that."

"I know that." She nods, legs folding underneath her, nightshirt falling mid thigh. "I just think I needed to hear it from you."

"So?"

"So." She purses her lips. "Two kids?"

He laughs. In relief. In excitement. In ecstasy. Hooks one arm around her torso, the other around one of her legs before she scrambles away. He envelopes her, rests sideways with his arms around her. Kisses her shoulder, her cheek, her lips. Finally drags his fingers across her stomach and her muscles twitch from his light touch.

He maneuvers so his face is even with her uncovered naval which is showing no visible changes from two nights ago when they last had sex. He speaks. Talks to it, to the life within. Introduces himself and then starts a repertoire like they've always known each other. Jules' hand rests on the back of his head, quiet encouragement, and he presses his cheek against her stomach.

An hour passes as he asks it questions. Discusses how under no circumstances they will name it Steve, or anything to do with his or her father. Speaks of its potential to break the sixteen-year-long male baby dry spell on Team One. Or how it could surprise everyone and be a watermelon.

When Jules falls asleep, her hand stationary and heavy against his head, he tells it the story of how they first met. How female snipers were a rare breed and the way she packed away her rifle, he knew she was bad ass. Admits that his first intentions weren't the purest, but then all he wanted was to be with her. How her and four other guys pulled guns on him and he knew he was going to end up with her or die trying.

The clock tells him he has to be at work in three hours. It doesn't matter, it was a night well spent in his opinion. He kisses her stomach gently and folds down her shirt. Covers her with the comforter and kisses her cheek. Before going to sleep, he checks on Charlotte. Places a broad hand on her tiny back and, as always, is relieved to feel the regular compressions of her chest.

Climbing back into bed beside Jules, he finds he's not tired. His brain is firing too many questions for him to focus or relax. He wonders if he could convince Jules to move. Get a bigger house with a big backyard for outdoor shenanigans and maybe a dog. With a first floor laundry and at least a fourth bedroom for growing prospects. Wonders if he should tell his parents. If they'll want to be a part of this baby's life. If they even deserve to be after snubbing Charlotte for almost a year and a half. Then again, this might ignite a connection.

Wonders if he should even bother to propose to her now. If it would seem forced when it's been planned for years. A tightrope walk from jewelry store to jewelry store. Odds are they wouldn't get married before the baby was born anyway. Don't want to rush it, can't really afford it, and he really doesn't want Jules only marriage to have a slightly shotgun twang. Wonders if the baby will have his surname. It's not fair to Charlotte. The best thing to do would be to equalize and just give everyone the same surname. Then they'll have to discuss hyphen or no hyphen. Would she even want to use his last name?

In her sleep, Jules sighs and turns onto her side, embracing him. He returns the sentiment, respiration and all. Hugs her hazy form in the darkness, arm around her shoulders, hand sliding to her covered stomach just to double check.

* * *

><p><em>Next Chapter - Familial shit of all proportions goes down. <em>


	13. Saltines and Family Trees

_A/N:Hey Guys, you have SYurri to thank for this chapter too. I made some demands that I wanted and wouldn't post this chapter until I got them (Basically Ed on the moon). She did it. So here it is, only a day late, but 22 pages long. So it evens out.  
>One and a half of the five oneshots which act as sequels to this story are now tentatively complete. So hopefully I keep up with them.<br>Thanks to everyone who reviewed, favorited, alerted and read. Again (spoiler alert) they're not gonna get married. Or I'd have to change the story title.  
><em>

Illegitimate

Chapter 13

Saltines and Family Trees

His baby doesn't agree with her the way Charlotte did. His baby creates a rougher pregnancy from the start. Immediately calls forth tumultuous morning sickness which adheres to no known clock. Nausea which crashes and spurns like tidal waves. She can't eat much. Almost anything from the second month on. Only small snacks throughout the day and crackers to absorb the surplus of stomach acid. She gets rampant cravings. While leaning against him on the couch, hand on her bump and announces in a nonchalant voice that she could really go for a burger. By the time he returns with it, she's vomiting.

Gains generally the same amount of weight as with Charlotte, maybe two or three pounds more. Is still easily liftable. But the weight congregates quicker. It's amazing how she forces herself to eat, throws up half the time, and ends up with protruding stomach by the third month. Her leg and back muscles cramp at four months, feet swell at five and she has eternal heartburn throughout. One of his hands usually rests on her stomach, the other over her heart to fell the lump-thump of it as the acid rises.

Since his baby won't agree with her, he tries to at all times, but they just end up arguing more. He wants to get air conditioning for the house, but her retort is they can't afford it. It's her base reply to all his suggestions. One day he finally breaks. Out of curiosity and a sliver of spite asks her what they can afford. She answers a second child and he shuts the fuck up.

Arguments are usually over baby related things. Like wanting to find out the gender. He's for, she's against. Or wanting to get the nursery in place before the baby is born. He's for, she's against. Or wanting to name the baby Josephine if it's a girl. He's for, she's against. Or that it's time to tell their two-year-old daughter her real father's name is Steve. She's for, he's against.

Charlotte hears the disagreements which could very well be taped and broadcast with them behind podiums and someone moderating. Sometimes she hugs Jules' legs, or his. Sometimes she hides under the beds, or in the hamper, or inside the lower kitchen cupboards. Sometimes she sits on the spot and starts to cry. The yelling gets loud and it's disconcerting for her, because she didn't grow up around it.

The Steve paternity debacle reaches its boiling point in a grocery store when Jules is thirty weeks in. It's the end of September and the heat finally peters down. Charlotte pokes Jules in the stomach a few times from where she sits in the shopping cart and asks in broken toddler speech if the baby is a watermelon. Jules tells him not to leave their daughter alone with Spike anymore.

Eventually Jules leaves to go to the washroom, a common occurrence which happens anywhere from one to three times an hour depending on how his baby sits. Without knowing it, she takes the list hostage, leaving him and Charlotte stranded in the cereal aisle. Having a toddler in a cereal aisle, with rainbow colored boxes adorned with elated cartoon characters and sugar coated puffs is akin to having a drug addict in an evidence lockup.

"Daddy?"

And he knew it was coming. He can't tell her no. Jules can. Charlotte is a good kid. Doesn't throw temper tantrums or hold her breath and stomp her feet. But everyone once and a while she'll ask for things she doesn't need like sugar coated cereal or a motorcycle for her second birthday. "Yeah Sweetie?"

"Who Steve?"

She's holding his hand the same way. Her same hand around his same finger. He glances down to her tiny white sandals lifting off the ground as she balances on the balls of her feet. Wide, green eyes staring up at him. Her dark brown hair starting to adopt a slight wave. Her face is so beautiful, so pale and so innocent. Her lips purse and then pout as she is patient for his response.

Only he can't give her one. Can't speak. Can't do anything but feel her tiny fingers in his hand. Jules appears at the opposite end of the aisle and he tells Charlotte to stay put for a second, while he quietly explains what happened to Jules. When they turn back, their daughter is gone.

They both call her name and slowly, but with no response voices grow in cadence and volume. He bursts around the corner searching for her. Around the barrels of nuts, the huge carton of corn. Jules goes to the front of the store demanding no one be allowed to leave. He's known Jules a long time. Seen her through some pretty rough times. Through almost two pregnancies, through a bullet, through the death of two close friends. She's never acted like this before. A mixture of panic, fear, rage. Almost all of it directed at him.

He finds Charlotte in the frozen foods. A security guard is trying to lead her to the front, but she's fighting him. Kicking him. Punching him. Biting him. He and Jules taught her about strangers. With two cops for parents, they might have made her a little paranoid around strangers. The guard lets go of her arm to nurse his freshly bitten wrist.

"Charlotte." Calls her and watches feet pivot on the ground at his beckon. They meet halfway down the aisle. Scoops her up. Holds her and doesn't let her go.

"You left," she cries into his chest. Full out, can't catch her breath, hyperventilating cries with tears and snot and spit. He doesn't care, he hugs her tighter. She strings together toddler speech he can't dissect because it's jumbled in halting breathes. But at the end she declares something he'll remember for the rest of his life. "I love you, Daddy."

Jules is not so easily placated. Receives her blubbering daughter back and won't speak a word to him, because it's his fault. He drops both his girls, both exhausted though neither will admit it, at home and when the door slams in his face, he finishes the shopping himself.

Returning a few hours later, because he had to go to a different grocery store for obvious reasons, he knocks on their closed bedroom door. Finds Jules rereading a pregnancy book she used with Charlotte. Their daughter sprawling out in sleep, one arm draped over the top of her mother's stomach.

He and Jules have a calming, loving discussion. She doesn't blame him for Charlotte disappearing today, it just frightened her. Both of them. Rests his head against her stomach, feels her fingers on his neck. Wishes his baby would acknowledge him. He asks Jules the question he's wanted to ask for over two years now. If she's happy. With him, with Charlotte, with Baby Number Two.

She smiles, soft like the faint bedside light illuminating the room. Midsection squashes as much as it can as she drops a kiss on his head. It's nice and relaxing and God it feels so perfect. "How can you even ask me that?"

"Well being a Mom, and doing police paperwork instead of saving live—"

"If I didn't want this life Sam, I wouldn't have chosen it." She continues in saying she's not saving lives any longer, but raising them. She gets to see their kids, meet them, find their personalities, and nurture them. It's something she was denied by both her parents, by almost everyone she knew. It's been one of the only things she's longed for in life.

Cautiously, he raises the question of Josephine again. Her hand freezes in his hair. Her thighs stiffen. The baby is hollow within her.

"What's wrong with Josephine?"

"I just don't know why you want to name our baby after someone you had no attachment too."

"I don't know why you wouldn't."

"Because it's a reminder."

"She loved you, Jules."

"Then why would she do that?"

He doesn't let the team know how stressful it's been on them. How afraid he is every day when he leaves the house. How everything that's happened to her in the last thirty-six weeks is entirely his fault. He wanted a family, he wanted a baby, and he wanted the sex which was probably in some form presupposed by the idea of creating a Braddock, he wanted Charlotte, he wanted Jules. Somehow they're both suffering for his greed.

"So any day now right?" Spike huffs from the treadmill. Wordy changes the rock music to some politically inclined talk show and they all moan.

He lifts a barbell up to his chest with a grunt. "She still has a few more weeks."

"Number two." Wordy shakes his head with a knowing grin.

"I still say this one is a boy."

Sarge laughs. "Eddy, you just want a boy."

"Maybe I'm tired of Wordy's girls running around this place like a pink hurricane."

"Hey."

"The only reason there are no baby boys is because the Scarlatti seed hasn't been sown yet."

"And thank God for that."

"Hey."

"Gentlemen, there is a purpose to this room you know," Sarge reminds.

"This all happened when Wordy switched the radio station."

"Sorry you had to think for a minute."

Replacing his barbell, he runs a hand over the slickness on his forehead. The bickering of the room fades to the background as he steps into the lobby. Shrugs at Winnie who shakes her head, then slowly his fills his water bottle from the fountain.

Can still audibly perceive the guys arguing just under his foreboding thoughts of Jules, Charlotte, his baby. Wordy defending his girls. How Lilly is taking karate and how Allie is in soccer. How Spike says his son will be the spitting image of a Roman God.

Vaguely notices Winnie signing someone in at the desk. A tall someone, taller than himself. With broad shoulders in a decorated black suit. Winnie points towards him and as the man turns he realizes it's The General.

"Dad?" He knows his face must create a confused and unsightly expression because The General's nostrils flare in disappointment.

"Samuel."

They just stand for a few minutes. His navy blue t-shirt soaked through with sweat. His forehead perspiring though he's not sure it's completely from the workout anymore. Hand barely holding a half-filled aluminum water bottle. The General with his hands clasped appropriately at his waist, cap in them. Face etched in stone, free of emotions, of care.

He caves first, whether it's from the silence, from the pressure, or from knowing he still hasn't amounted to anything in The General's eyes. "Is there something you needed?"

"Well Samuel." Clears his throat, strained and hoarse with years of yelling. At subordinates, in defeat, in victory, at his mom, at his sisters, at him. "I believe you contacted us first."

"I didn't call you," scoffs from the side of his mouth. Eyes drift over to the workout room where the rest of the Team has caught a glimpse of the partial family reunion. "I haven't in over two years."

The General's gray eyes flash. Dart in violence. Then just as sudden, settle. His voice is strict, but calm. "I believe you emailed your mother a few months ago and expressed you were expecting your first child?"

"Second," he corrects again. This time has the nerve to cross his arms over his damp shirt. Holds his water bottle lightly by the neck by only a few fingers.

"Samuel." Clenching his teeth into two perfect, showy rows, he leans in a bit. "You and I both know you're not that child's father."

He grins, lopsided, arrogant, defiant. Copies the power move, the move meant to oppress, so there's less than half a foot between them. "Yes I am."

With a hint of skepticism, The General poses, "So you've legally adopted the child?"

"Yep. When she was six months old." Would've been sooner, but that's how long it took the paperwork to go through. "And that 'child' is your granddaughter. Her name is Charlotte."

A noise dissipates from deep within his throat. He's only heard it during times of extreme displeasure. Losing a battlefront, his mom inviting his aunts for the holiday, Natalie crashing the car through the garage door.

"So do you finally want to meet her?"

Another clear cutting of his throat. Hands aren't so stable, his posture not so dominating. "We're here to see the baby. Your mother is back at the hotel."

"The baby hasn't been born yet." He should be furious, should be ready to swing a closed fist at The General, but for some odd reason he finds the whole situation entirely entertaining. Maybe even humorous. His parents think they can scorn Charlotte and then waltz back into his life to enjoy what they consider their first grandchild? "And I'm not letting you have a relationship with one of my kids and not the other."

"I'm willing to make concessions in order to see my grandson."

"We don't know the baby's gender yet."

"All Braddock men have a son first. I did, your grandfather did, your great-grandfather did." Then adds with the most indifferent tone and face, "if you didn't have a son first I'd assume this one wasn't yours either."

Then he feels the tick plucking his eyelids. It's not because Jules would ever cheat on him. He knows she wouldn't, it's that someone, his own father, would insinuate it to his face. "I think it's time you left."

"I am already making concessions for you, Samuel." Teeth grate off of each other, and The General's eyes set ablaze. Turn the cool blue of the hottest flame. "In all honesty, your track record with this woman and her lifestyle—"

"We're done." Without creating any further contact, any further link, he walks right by. If his father isn't willing to recognize his children, his daughter, the woman he loves, than the feeling is mutual.

"Samuel." He's called once, but doesn't stop. Not until he adds, "Do it for your mother."

His feet stop on the gleaming floor and he's torn between continuing back to the workout room, answering the barrage of questions from the Team and taking the psych test which Sarge will all but force upon him. Or turning around for his Mom. For the woman who taught him how to skate. Who made up lies when he broke The General's awards playing in the house. Who snuck him dinner when he was being punished. Who told him ten stitches was a lot and it was okay to cry and she was so glad he was safe.

Faces The General again, who's on the verge of collapse. Like the sun falling over hills. "I was the one who wouldn't let her contact you over the other child. She wa—"

"Charlotte." He fully interrupts now. Fingers pressing into the sweat dusted crevices on his brow. "Her name is Charlotte."

"Yes, over Charlotte. Finally when you sent the ultrasound by email she wanted to reply and I deleted it." He pauses. Not for suspense or to catch his breath but to think of his next sentence very carefully. "A few weeks ago she threatened to divorce me if I didn't let her see you or your children. Both of them. Even drew up the goddamn papers."

Then it becomes so clear why The General is here. He's here for the same reason he always does something, for himself. Even when he controls his or his sisters' lives, it's to better his own image. "So you're doing this to keep Mom. Not to see my kids."

"You don't think it would be beneficial for them to know their grandparents?"

The General never spent much time with him as a child. Didn't do fatherly things, didn't teach him to ride a bike, drive a car, or play hockey. Only cultivated fear which grew to hatred. He'd like nothing more than to fuck logic, tell The General he hates him and has a perfect life now with the absence of him in it. Instead he does the opposite, turns away from selfishness and thinks about the people he loves. How his Mom wants to see his kids. How Charlotte would benefit from the older woman playing with her and teaching her old Braddock family secrets. How the new baby's life would be broadened. How Jules would have a semblance of the extended family she always wanted.

"You get one chance." For emphasis he lifts a single index finger. Watches his father under stern set eyebrows so the man knows he's completely serious. "If you do anything to upset them or hurt them. We're done."

"Fine."

Leaves his father standing solitary in the lobby. Thinks of Jules, of Charlotte and of his new baby. Gains confidence in their love and over his shoulder announces, "I'm doing this for Mom."

"Me too."

Wanting to be inclusive and fair, he and Jules have a long discussion on the matter. It's a serene exchange of words after Charlotte is put to sleep with her disheveled Pink Puppy and a retelling of The Lost Dog which all three of them recite together. He and Jules recline on the couch, the lights dimmed, the television fragmenting on low volume, a box of saltines strewn across the coffee table with a Big Gulp Slushie.

With her back against his side, one of his hands rests on her idle stomach. The baby which hardly moves. She feels it, has felt it since the fourth month. Yet whenever she partners his hand beside hers it ceases. Like the baby is doing something illegal or immoral and he caught it. Pictures the baby nestled inside of Jules with suddenly shocked eyes. His other hand is over her heart. Her heart sitting in a vat of acid. The lump-thumps under his hand as she chews on an antacid tablet.

"He's your dad, Sam." Her thumb caresses indolently over the back of his hand and it makes him close his eyes. "They're your kids."

"They're our kids." His hand lightly jostles her stomach as if to remind the baby of this point. There's no response. "Don't try to pawn them off on me."

"You want my opinion?" Head angles up from snuggling underneath his shoulder. "My honest-to-God-hormone-laden-I-can't-reach-my-feet-anymore full truths?"

Kissing the tip of her nose, he grins at her. "I'd be honored to hear them."

"Give him a chance." She shrugs and points to the Big Gulp cup on the table. He retrieves it for her and she sips from it while balancing it on the curve of her stomach. "If he's an asshole, than he's an asshole and there's nothing else we can do. But at least we gave him the opportunity right? We're not the ones at fault." Slurping another long sip, she wipes the back of her mouth with her hand, and returns the cup to him. "Plus there's your mom right?"

Bowing his head, he kisses her, tastes the tropical flavor of her Slushie, her sticky lips, her cold tongue. "God, you're perfect. You know that right?"

"Sam." She holds her stomach in both hands; the movement causes her biceps to brush and press her breasts together. "I look like I ate the wrong piece of gum in a chocolate factory."

"You're gorgeous, and I love you." He places a gentle kiss on the side of her neck, than one behind her ear.

"Yeah okay," she laughs and swats the side of his face. "I get it, but believe me we did that and we won't be doing that for awhile."

He grins, and innocently kisses her cheek, while rubbing her stomach. "At least until we try for whatever gender this one isn't, right?"

"What?" Shifts away from him as much as she can, which only happens to be a few inches. "No way. We're done."

"You don't want any more kids?"

"In case you haven't noticed we're running out of rooms." She sighs and places a cool hand on the side of his cheek. "Can't you just enjoy the ones we have?"

"Or." He captures her hand and places a kiss on her fingertips. "Or. And this is just an idea remember. We buy a bigger house with more rooms and fill those with kids too."

"I'm going to bed, Sam." She claws at the back of the couch until he plants his hands around her waist where her hips are hibernating again and helps her to stand.

"I vote for my idea." When she doesn't answer him, he doesn't worry. They use condoms and if they've failed them once, they're bound to fail them again.

Two days later his parents are scheduled to meet Charlotte and Jules for the first time. He wakes to light slipping between the blinds from the looming December sky. They're a few weeks away from Christmas as Charlotte reminds in every other sentence. The tree's set up downstairs; it's a level above Charlie Brown's. Poorly decorated because Charlotte wanted everything, tinsel, beads, lights, popcorn, everything on it and it's not exactly stable. Jules constantly complains about the pine needles sticking to the bottom of her swollen feet which no longer fit into slippers and rise like baking bread against the confines of socks.

From their ensuite, he hears her coughing. In the lulling dream fog he thinks she's brushing her teeth, but then he quickly realizes she's throwing up. Slides out of bed and dashes to the bathroom door, only to find it locked. "Jules?"

There's a click as she opens the door while still sitting on the floor, legs folding sideways around the toilet, stomach pressing into the basin, hugging the rim. "Sorry." It reverberates empty into the bowl. Her skin is pallid, soaked in sweat, around her eyes is gray and sunken. She looks horrible. "I didn't want to wake you." At the end of her sentence she vomits again. Blue Slushie, crackers and stomach acid slosh into the water.

"I don't care about that. Are you okay?" Kneels next to her, tiles imprinting on his knees. When he collects her hair it clumps, heavy and pasting together with sweat.

She collapses against the toilet breathing heavily. "Just feeling a little," she groans and rubs her stomach. "A little rough."

"I could see if I can call—"

"It's a pregnancy Sam, I didn't lose a limb."

She tries to stand up, but crumbles back down. He catches her, hand on her arm, another on her back which is a mixture of tight muscles and misplaced bones. They stand together and he helps her back into bed, sits on the edge as she speaks generic sentences about how she'll be fine. Rolls onto her side, and he kisses her clammy forehead and rubs her stomach. A single thump finally answers him.

Work is hectic because of the holiday season. Plenty of attempted and successful suicides to counterbalance all the Rudolph family specials. The Team deals with two suicides, one takes a dive off the roof of an apartment building, the other they safely corral. Then, in the last hour of the shift, there's a hostage situation. A guy dressed as Santa trying to rob a store in the Eaton's Center. He doesn't like the Eaton's Center. Didn't before now. He can't exactly call Jules or his parents and tell them he'll be late. It takes three hours for everything to be successfully resolved.

When he gets home it's dark and well after suppertime. Closer to Charlotte's bedtime. The Christmas lights are on outside and a few fat flakes of snow waft down as he walks up the front path. To his surprise his mom opens the front door, instantly embracing him. "Hello Honey."

It's been four years, and the hug feels the same as it did when he was two. Her blonde hair is paler. Turning white with age and there's a few more wrinkles embedded around her pale blue eyes. She kisses his cheek. "I've missed you so much, Sammy."

"I missed too, Mom."

Gesturing to the living room she gives him a grin. A grin he knows from growing up. A grin that immediately spreads nostalgia throughout his body. Secretive, proud. One he remembers from over The General's shoulder while he was screaming at him for beating up kids who picked on Natalie. "She's beautiful. She loves you so much."

"Who Jules or—"

"Your wife."

"She's not my wife." It hurts him to correct. It's almost embarrassing. Just shy of two kids later and she's not his wife. Society would blame him and it is him. They've never even talked about marriage. Never even sat down and had a concrete conversation concerning what they both wanted because their relationship is perfect as it is. Only he wants them to be married and wants it to be perfect and not rushed because she's pregnant.

"It won't be long now, because you're my son." She rubs at his cheek with a thumb. Still wears the pride. Unashamed of his modern lifestyle. "And I didn't raise a stupid child."

"What about Natalie?"

"Sam." It's a warning as her wrinkled lips hook into a scorn. She juts a thumb to the doorway and they walk into the warm glow of his house. "Charlotte is absolutely gorgeous. And so smart. But I might be biased because I'm a grandma. I told the girls on the base about it. I brag, Sam. About you. About Natalie. Now about them."

When the door shuts. Charlotte bursts around the corner. She's wearing plaid pajamas and socks with little bells sewn into the cuff. So a jingle accompanies her heavy bounding footsteps. Her wavy hair is pulled into a ponytail and it bobs like her mother's as she runs to him. "Daddy."

Her arms wring around his legs until he flips her up, ensconcing her in his arms. Her legs kick in the air from excitement like a motor fan and the front room fills with bouncing jingles. She kisses his cheek and points to his mom, "Gran."

Kisses her back. Relaxes with her head tucked by his chin. Her ponytail wagging as she waves at his mom. "I know, she's my mom."

Charlotte blows a raspberry and shakes her head at him. Like he's telling her a lie. He has developed quite the story telling ability since she memorized The Lost Dog. Tells her made up tales. "No."

Sighs because someday he'll have to explain it all to her. Not just grandparents. Or how and why The General just sits on the couch with the same old glower even though he's a grandfather for the first time in his life. Or even where babies come from. Might just clear his throat, stand up from the couch, and pat Jules on the back wishing her good luck with that one. But knows the Steve subject is going to come back. Knows it will always come back because she's Steve's biological daughter. Somewhere in a place he can't see, she's half Steve. It's something that doesn't bother him that much anymore because she calls him Daddy and she loves him. She's gorgeous, she's always looked exactly like Jules. But he knows someday the explanation is going to cause a rift like it did in the grocery store.

"Honey, I think maybe you should go upstairs and check on Jules." His mom holds out her arms to Charlotte. His daughter settles in her arms with a few jingles, rolls her tiny fingers around his mother's pearl necklace. "I don't think she was feeling well earlier. She went upstairs for sweater just before you came home."

"Yeah." Worried now about Jules and his baby, the harbinger of perpetual sickness. Would inform his mother that it's normal for Jules to throw up like a kid during their first trip at an amusement park, that he doesn't think she's had a solid meal in the last nine months, but he actually doesn't feel comfortable divulging the information in front of The General who sits, back straight, on the couch. Watching with a scowl.

Charlotte notices, brings up chipping red-painted nails to his mother's shoulder and ducks her head. "Come on, Darling." His mom rubs her back. "Come read Grandma and Grandpa a story."

Listens to his mother's calm voice and the General's stern silence get interrupted by Charlotte's discharges of sharp toddler speech as he climbs the stairs. The door to their bedroom is closed and he raps his knuckles against it lightly. "Jules, it's me. Are you okay?"

Doesn't ask if he can enter, just opens the door. They're too far along in their relationship for him to need permission into rooms of the house. She's too far along in the pregnancy to be sick and by herself for him not to feel anxious. Needs to talk to Sarge about starting his paternity leave a week early.

She's balancing on the edge of the bed. Dressed in black slacks and one of his white dress shirts. It's stretched tight around her stomach which creates a relaxing grin on his face until he notices her stomach. Her stomach gestating his baby. Her stomach which is lower than when he left this morning. Her one hand rests on the summit of it, which is no longer crushing her ribcage. The other has a fist full of scrunched comforter.

"Hey. Hey." He shuts the door behind him. Zips into the room, passes the hamper of laundry she didn't get to today, a tower of baby books, design ideas for the nursery, and a box of Charlotte's old clothes in case the baby is a girl. Kneels on the floor beside her knees, doesn't want to dip the bed and upset her with more pain. "What's wrong? Are you—" places a hand to her stomach and feels barrages of movements. The last nine month's worth of motion all concentrated in one instance. It doesn't stop at his hand. It concentrates on his hand.

"Something's wrong, Sam."

Keeps his hand stapled to her stomach as he stands from the floor. Slips his other hand around her back and feels muscles twitch erratically with pain. "Are you having contractions?"

She nods viciously. Bangs bounce around her eyes. Face pale, but stoic, concentrating on the wall while her body pushes through. "It hurts more than with Charlotte. It doesn't feel right. It hurts to move."

"Okay." Vaguely hears loud conversation erupt from downstairs. It doesn't sound like Charlotte's toddler speech interruptions. More like what he grew up with in the desert. Rubs her stomach, trying to ignore the heavy metal drummer within. Cups his hand to her cheek to keep her composed. Thumb caresses over her cheekbone and in slow, calm words ensures, "We just need to get you to the hospital."

"Sam, it hur—"

"I'll help you okay." Nods his head at her for reassurance. Slow gentle bobs like a piece of dead wood floating on a lake. "We actually just have to get you to the car. Just down the stairs and outside, okay?"

"Okay." Mimics his mesmerizing nod and rests her forehead against his for a brief moment. They allow one breath in before he helps her stand. Tries not to listen to the painful exhales. The actual yelps of pain. She places one hand underneath her stomach and one around his neck. He holds that hand and wraps one around her back.

As soon as they open the door, a verbal battle beats them. His parents executing a perfect rendition of his entire childhood down in the living room and he's worried for Charlotte who can't get at them because of the safety gate blocking the entrance to the stairs.

"This isn't normal, Pearl."

"You just can't understand because you weren't around for your children and when you were, you scared them. You scared them shitless."

"What's going on?" They're at the landing and Jules has just caught on to the melee happening in the living room. Her head tilts at the noise, eyes narrowed in a pain induced confusion. "Are your parents—ah." She lurches forward in pain. Arms swoop, looping around her, catches her before she tips and tumbles down the seven remaining stairs. Heartbeat crashes in his ears.

"Don't worry about them. Just concentrate on walking, okay?"

"Charlotte. Charlotte is going to be terrified."

It's true. His parents' argument is putting their trivial baby instigated disagreements to pure shame. He's surprised the neighbors haven't called the police yet.

"I served my country. I sacrificed my life to serve my country and my kids were insolent from—"

"From never seeing you. We never saw you."

He unlocks the safety gate. Kicks it open and helps Jules through. He can't let her sit again, because she might not get back up. Doesn't want to deliver a baby in the kitchen. Can't deal with complications if there are any. God, there can't be any complications.

"Can you lean against the stool while I find her?"

Nods a thousand times again. Back arches so her stomach touches her thighs. Her hair cascades like a waterfall in front of her face and her hands support her whole body. "This actually doesn't feel too bad."

Smiles despite the situation and twirls around the open room searching for his daughter. Gathers the coats while doing so. Knows Charlotte isn't in the laundry hamper because the stairs were detoured. Knows she's not between the couches because that's where the fight is happening. Slides to his knees before the cupboard across from the sink. They keep it empty because she plays in there, knows not to go into the other ones.

Finds the trembling form of his daughter. Her body shrunk in hiding, arms under knees, legs to chest. She flinches at the door suddenly being ripped open, but stutters a breath when she sees it's him.

"Come on, Sweetheart." He holds his arms open to embrace her. Reaches in and she flings herself at him. Face buried in his shoulder, arms tight around his neck. Her ponytail has faded to the bottom of her head, is loose and falling out of her hair. Her face is red with the remnants of tears. Her feet jingle. "It's okay, we're going."

Remembers Natalie being the same way when she was younger. How she'd hide from the arguments. Wind up in the hall closet or the laundry room. No one could find her for hours. The General wouldn't even notice she was missing.

"She's not even his daughter."

"Yes, she is."

Sets Charlotte on the counter and sticks small furry boots on the bottom of jingled feet. Wraps her up in a thick winter coat. Has no idea how dealing with a toddler and a birth at a hospital overnight is going to work but he'll deal with the details later. Everyone just needs to be healthy.

"Sam."

Rushes back over to Jules. Charlotte is just content on being in his arms. Is almost choking him, her grip is so tight. Can feel the quickness of her chest. The hot exhalations of her breath against his skin. But she's quiet. Not thrashing or protesting.

"What's wrong?"

She doesn't answer him. Remains static in the same position. He wants to inform her that though they are in this 'parenting' thing as equals, he's not exactly feeling the same things she is. So if she wants to clarify any vague perceptions he has, he's glad for the information. But then he notices it. The puddle spreading beneath her like a shadow threatening to consume. Now he's panicking. "Okay." Now he's really panicking. "Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay."

Pries her away from the stool he told her to depend on. Replaces the sturdy wood with his arm, which he fastens around her back. Hobbles with her the few feet to the front room where the verbal spar is reaching its apex. Jules leans haggard into the wall. Her body pressing precariously into its side. Together they get her feet, swollen to the ankles, high enough to force into boots.

While juggling a submissive Charlotte, he helps Jules into her coat. At least she'll be warm while he speeds like a maniac to the hospital. Or if the car breaks down. Oh God, what of the car—Lunges forward and snags both sets of keys from the side table by accident, then darts to the back of the couch.

"You're just fine with it because of Natalie. I've said it from the beginning that she looks nothing like me. That bitch is—"

And he witnesses something he's never seen in his life. Never expected to see. Always assumed if it happened it would be reversed and he would jump The General. But it's not. It's his mom stepping forward and slapping his dad right across the face. The whole thing stuns the room. Everyone except his mom. Even Jules' heavy breathing turns silent.

"Do not talk about my daughter like that."

Lets the silence gestate for a second. Partly because he needs to remember never to badmouth Natalie around his mom, and partly because he needs to remember the expression The General is wearing. A man who scorned his family and realized it only after it hit him in the face.

"Look." Adjusts Charlotte who is going to need a serious talking down after this. Maybe they'll share a hot chocolate while the doctors figure out what's wrong with her little sibling and talk about life. "I realize you guys are in the middle of something here, and I don't want to get in the way." Gestures back to Jules who is still breathing steady, still hunched over. Her face going red from pain. "But we're having a baby." He tosses Jules' keys underhand across the room so they splat onto the couch nearest his parents. "So when you're done can one of you lock up and leave the keys in the mailbox?"

Doesn't wait to hear an answer. Doesn't wait for apologies or recriminations. Doesn't wait for facial expressions to tell him the emotions he's deaf to. He's grown up around this. Knows the routine. Everyone knows their parts. So instead he reaches forward and snatches Pink Puppy from the arm of the couch and turns back to Jules. Has a baby who finally woke up. Who he wants to raise. Wants to see Charlotte interact with and love. Wants to get to the hospital. Wants to be healthy.

* * *

><p><em>Next and Final Chapter - Shit goes down. And perhaps there will be a baby. Maybe.<em>


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